THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


W* 
*tr 


£**-* 

#* 


A 


"BUDD  WILKINS  AT  THE  SHOW/' 

AND 

OTHER  VERSES, 


A  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS  FOR  READERS 
BOTH  PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE. 


SAMUEL  ELLSWORTH  KISER. 


THE  HELMAN-TAYLOR  COMPANY, 
CLEVELAND,  O. 

1898. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

THE  HELMAN-TAYLOR  COMPANY, 

CLEVELAND,  OHIO, 

1898. 


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V 

£> 
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INTRODUCTION.... 

Somebody  has  said  that  a  book  of 
poems  should  never  be  published  without 
a  good  excuse.  The  present  author 
thinks  he  has  one.  Many  of  the  rhymes 
contained  in  this  little  volume  have  been 
printed  and  reprinted  in  the  American 
newspapers,  and  many  inquiries  have 
come  to  the  author  from  people  who 
were  good  enough  to  express  desires  for 
his  verses  "in  book  form."  Hence 
another  tender  foundling  is  placed  upon 
the  world's  doorstep. 

S.  E.  K. 

Cleveland,  Nov.  9th,  J898. 


762882 


CONTENTS* 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES. 

PAGE. 

Budd  Wilkins  at  the  Show,         .             .  x 

Visiting  Laura  Belle,             .             .  5 
Little  Kate,           .....      9 

When  Dad  Got  Religion,     .             .             .  n 

An  Easy  Man,       .             .             .             .  .     14 

Deacon  White's  Confession,               .             .  16 

Grandma's  Lament,          .             •»            .  .20 
To-morrow,      .             .             .             ..22 

Uncle  Henry's  Downfall,             .             .  .     24 

The  Missing  One,        ....  26 

"They've  Named  Him  After  Me,"        .  .     28 

Only  a  Woman,            ....  31 

Uncle  Rufus  in  the  City,             .             .  -34 

Beneath  Old  Glory,     ....  36 

An  Every-Day  Wonder,               .             .  -38 

Uncle  Henry  On  Theology,                .             .  40 

Nellie's  Feller,      .             .             .             .  .     42 

The  Man  Who  Only  Smiled,             .             .  47 

Ma's  Boy,  Art,     .             .             .             .  .     51 

The  Hired  Man's  Confession,           .             .  55 

The  Other  Man's  Boy,     .             .             .  .59 
When  the  Riffle  Is  Made,      .            .            .61 

NATURE  AND  HER  MOODS. 

The  Birth  of  the  Rose,     .             .             .  .65 

Day  and  Night,            .             .             ,            .  66 

Queer  Old  Nature,           .            *            .  .68 

Apple  Blossoms,          ....  69 

Love's  Calendar,               .             .             .  .     70 
Fellowship,      .             .             .             .             .71 

The  Wind  in  the  Evergreens,     .             .  .     72 

Blossoms  and  Fruit,                 ...  74 

The  Cricket,          .             .             .             .  .75 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Painted  Leaves,  ...           76 

October  Days,       .  .     78 

Nature's  Funeral  Day,  .             .            .           79 

The  Wind  and  the  Leaves,  .            .             .80 

The  Dying  Year,        .  81 

MISCELLANEOUS  VERSES. 

The  Things  That  Are  Denied,  .  .  .85 

The  Old  Grind,  .  .  .  .  86 

A  Happy  Man,      .  .  ..  .  -87 

The  Ways,        .....  88 

A  Transformation,  .  .  .  .90 

The  Man  Who  Failed,  .  .  .  91 

The  Meeting,        .  .  .          .  .  .92 

The  Answer,  .  .  .  93 

Innocence,  .  .  .  .  -95 

Tears  and  Smiles,        ....  96 

The  One  Below,    .  .  .  .  .98 

The  Sweet  Old  Way,  .  .  .100 

The  Man  Who  Is  Not  Needed,  .  .  102 

The  Banished  Vision,  .  .  .         104 

The  Infidel,  .  .  .  .  .105 

Her  Tears,       .....         107 

Words  in  the  Sand,  ....  108 

His  New  Suit,  ....         109 

Visions  of  the  Past,          .  .  .  .  in 

Where  She  Is,  .  .  .  .113 

Going  With  the  Crowd,  .  .  .114 

The  Course  of  Love,  .  .  .116 

If 119 

Miss  "  I-Don't-Care,"  .  .  .         121 

Happiness,  .....  123 

The  Man  of  Faith,      .  .  .  .124 

Living  It  Over,     .....  126 
The  Quarrel,    .  .  .  .  .         128 

The  Man  Who  Didn't  Rise,        .  .  .129 

Love's  Mirror,  ....         130 

Contentment,         .  .  .  .  .  131 

Lines  to  a  Cobbler,     .  .  .  .        133 

Lost  Candor,         .  .  .  .  134 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Little  Old  Church  Down  Town,  .        135 

Since  She's  Away,  ....  .  .  137 

On  Life's  Ladder,      .  .  .     '        .         138 

A  Wish,      .  .  ....   139 

Passing  of  a  Good  Samaritan,  .  .         140 

"  When  the  Devil  Was  Sick,"  .  .  142 

The  Man  Who  Was  Forgotten,         .  .         144 

A  Song  for  the  Selfish,     .  .  .  .146 

Waiting  for  Something  to  Happen,  .         147 

When  Doctors  Disagree,  ...  148 

A  Resurrection,  ....         150 

Faith,          .  .  .  .  .151 

The  Search  for  Gold,  .  .  .152 

The  Man  Who  Hadn't  Time,     .  .  .   153 

The  Quarrel  in  the  Cornfield,  .  .         154 

Love  Asleep,        .....  156 

This  Queer  Old  World,          .  .  .157 

The  Recompense,  ....  159 

A  FEW  BOYS. 

Song  for  the  First  Born,        .  .  .         163 
There  is  a  Santa  Claus,    ....  164 

The  Boy  Whose  Pa  Has  Spells,  .  .         166 

Confessions  of  Little  Willie,       .  .  .  169 

When  Sorrows  Come,             .  .  .         171 

Getting  To  Be  a  Man,     .             .  .  .172 

Meditations  of  Johnny,           .  .  .         173 

A  Boy's  King,       .  •          .             ,  .  .  174 

She  Never  Was  a  Boy,           .  .  .         176 

Riding  the  Old  Gray  Horse,       .  .  .   177 

The  First  Christmas  Tree,    .  .  .         178 
The  Good  Night  Kiss,     ....  179 

A  Boy's  Complaint,    .             .  .  181 


Tii 


BUDD  WILKINS  AT  THE  SHOW. 

Since  I've  got  used  to  city  ways  and  don't 

scare  at  the  cars, 
It   makes  me  smile  to  set  and  think  of 

years  ago. — My  stars! 
How  green  I  was,  and  how  green  all  them 

country  people  be — 
Sometimes  it  seems  almost  as  if  this  hardly 

could  be  me. 

Well,  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you   'bout  Eudd 

Wilkins:     I  declare 
He  was  the  durndest,  greenest  chap  that 

ever  breathed  the  air — 
The  biggest  town  on  earth,  he  thought, 

was  our  old  county  seat, 
With   its   one   two-story  brick  hotel  and 

dusty  bizness  street. 

We'd   fairs  in  fall  and  now  and  then  a 

dance  or  huskin'  bee, 
Which  was  the  most  excitin'  things  Budd 

Wilkins  ever  see, 
Until,  one   winter,   Skigginsville   was   all 

turned  upside  down 
By  a  troupe  of  real  play  actors  a-comin' 

into  town. 

The  court  house  it  was  turned  into  a  the 
ater,  that  night, 


BUDD  W ILK  INS  AT  THE  SHOW. 

And  I  don't  s'pose  I'll  live  to  see  another 

sich  a  sight : 
I  guess  that  every  person  who  was  able  fer 

to  go 
Jest   natchelly   cut   loose  fer  oncet,    and 

went  to  see  the  show. 

Me  and  Budd  we  stood  around  there  all 

day  in  the  snow, 
But  gosh!  it  paid  us,   fer   we   got   seats 

right  in  the  second  row! 
Well,  the  brass  band  played  a  tune  er  two, 

and  then  the  play  begun, 
And    'twa'n't  long  'fore  the  villain  had 

the  hero  on  the  run. 

Say,   talk    about    your   purty   girls   with 

sweet,  confidin'  ways — 
I   never   see  the  equal  yit,  in   all   o'    my 

born  days, 
Of   that   there   brave   young  heroine,   so 

clingin'  and  so  mild, 
And   jest   as   innocent  as  if  she'd  been  a 

little  child. 

I  most  forgot  to  say  that  Budd  stood  six 

feet  in  his  socks, 
As   brave   as  any  lion,   too,  and  stronger 

than  an  ox! 
But  there  never  was  a  man,  I'll  bet,  that 

had  a  softer  heart, 
And   he   was    always    sure    to    take   the 

weaker  person's  part. 


BUDD   WILKINS  AT  THE  SHOW. 

Budd,  he  fell  dead  in  love  right  off  with 

that  there  purty  girl, 
And  I  suppose  the  feller's  brain  was  in  a 

fearful  whirl, 
Fer   there   he   set  and  gazed  at  her,  and 

when  she  sighed  he  sighed, 
And  when  she  hid  her  face  and  sobbed,  he 

actually  cried. 

He  clinched  his  fists  and  ground  his  teeth 

when  the  villain  laid  his  plot 
And   said   out   loud  he'd  like  to  kill  the 

rogue  right  on  the  spot, 
And  when  the  hero  helped  the  girl,  Budd 

up  and  yelled  "Hooray!" 
He'd  clean  fergot  the  whole  blame  thing 

was  nothin'  but  a  play. 

At  last  the  villain  trapped  the  girl,  that 

sweet  confidin'  child, 
And   when   she   cried  fer  help,   why  I'll 

admit  that  I  was  riled ; 
The  hero  couldn't  do  a  thing,  but  roll  and 

writhe  around 
And  tug  and  groan  because  they'd  got  the 

poor  chap  gagged  and  bound. 

The  maiden  cried:      "Unhand  me  now, 

or,  weak  girl  that  I  am — " 
And   then   Budd  Wilkins   he   jumped   up 

and  give  his  hat  a  slam, 
And,  quicker'n  I  can  tell   it   he   was  up 

there  raisin'  Ned, 
A-rescuin'  the  maiden  and  a-punchin'  the 

rogue's  head. 

3 


BUDD  WILKINS  AT  THE  SHOW. 

I  can't,  somehow,  perticklerize  concernin' 

that  there  row : 
The  whole  thing  seems  a  sort  of  blur  as  I 

recall  it  now — 
But  I  can  still  remember  that  there  was  a 

fearful  thud, 
With  the  air  chock  full  of  arms  and  legs 

and  the  villain  under  Budd. 

I  never  see  a  chap  so  bruised  and  battered 

up  before 
As  that  there   villain   was  when   he   was 

picked  up  from  the  floor ! — 
The  show?     Oh,  it  was  busted,  and  they 

put  poor  Budd  in  jail, 
And  kept  him  there  all  night,  because  I 

couldn't  go  his  bail. 

Next  mornin'  what  d'you  think  we  heard? 

Most  s'prised  in  all  my  life! 
That  sweet  confidin'  maiden  was  the  cruel 

villain's  wife! 
Budd   wilted   when   he  heard   it,  and   he 

groaned,  and  then,  says  he : 
"Well,  I'll  be  dummed!     Bill,  that's  the 

last  play  actin'  show  fer  me!" 


VISITING  LAURA  BELLE. 

I've    just   been   up  to   town  to  see  my 

daughter  Laura  Belle — 
She    married    Henry  Lee,    you    know — 

they're  doin'  mighty  well! 
Live  right  in  style,  I  tell  you,  in  a  house 

that's  big  enough 
For  half  a  dozen  f  am 'lies  most,  and  oh 

the  piles  of  stuff 
That   they've   got    scattered  through  it, 

sich  as  bricky-brack  'nd  books, 
And  they're  keepin'  "first"  and  "second" 

girls  'nd  chambermaids  'nd  cooks, 
And  kerridges   'nd  all  sich  like,  'nd  she 

wears  diamond  rings — 
I  vow,  it  must  make  Henry  hump  to  pay 

fer  all  them  things ! 

And  they  are  in  society,  clean  over  head 

'nd  all- 
Card  parties  'nd  receptions,  'nd  now  and 

then  a  ball, 
And  operies  'nd  dinners  at  the  club — gosh ! 

I  dunno 

How  folks  can  do  much  work  'nd  be  for 
ever  on  the  go; 

And  I  told  Henry  plain    that  this  here 
bein'  out  at  night 


VISITING  LA  URA  BELLE. 

And   sleepin'    late   next    mornin'    wasn't 

altogether  right. 
But  he  paid  no  attention  'cept  to  sort  of 

draw  up  straight 
And  say  in  kind  of  sneerin'  tones,  "Some 

folks  was  out  of  date." 

Now,  that  makes  me  remember  what  I 

started  out  to  say : 
I  didn't   notice   it   at  first,   but  seemed, 

from  day  to  day, 
As  if  they  had  a  notion  that  I  wa'n't  the 

proper  style, 
Because  when   comp'ny  come  they  kept 

me  busy  all  the  while 
A  tendin'  to  the  children,  in  the  nursery, 

upstairs, 
And  they  never  took  me  out  to  no  society 

affairs, 
And  in  a  lot  of  ways  I  seen  that  they 

appeared  to  be — 
Well,  what's  the  use  to  hold  it  back? 

They  was  ashamed  of  me! 

Excuse  me — I've  ketched  cold,  I  guess — I 

wonder  what  I  done 
With   that   there   henkerchief   of   mine — 

gosh,  how  my  nose  doos  run ! 
I  can't   help   thinkin'    of  the  time  when 

Laura  Belle  and  me 
Was  just  like  two  old  cronies!     She  would 

set  upon  my  knee, 
And  I  would  teach  her  pieces,    'nd  hug 

her  to  my  heart, 


VISITING  LA  URA  BELLE. 

And  tell  her  that  some  day  I  s'posed 
some  man  'ud  make  us  part, 

And  then  she'd  always  kiss  me  'nd  look 
up  at  me  'nd  say 

That  I  was  all  the  beau  for  her,  'nd  she'd 
never  go  away. 

And  when  her  mother  died  I  mind  how 

she  held  up  so  brave, 
And  kept  me  from  a  breakin'  down  right 

there  beside  the  grave, 
And  when  we  got  back  home  agin,  where 

all  appeared  so  bare 
And  empty  like  'nd  lonesome,  just  'cause 

mother  wasn't  there, 
She  come  'nd  put  her  arms  around  my 

neck,  'nd  then  we  cried 
Together  there  right  on  the  spot,  almost, 

where  mother  died ! 
Oh  Lord,  I  don't  know  why  it  was — but  I 

could  plainly  see, 
When  I  was  there,  that  Laura  Belle  was 

sort  of  'shamed  of  me! 

I   s'pose   I  am  old-fashioned,  'nd   Henry 

may  be  right 
About  my  bein'  out  of  date,  'nd  mebby 

I'm  a  sight — 
But   I   ain't   never   robbed   no   man,  nor 

cheated  no  one  yit, 
And  I  have  never  took  a  thing  I  couldn't 

fairly  git, 
But  in  the  city  things  like  them  don't  seem 

to  count  fer  much — 


VISITING  LA  URA  BELLE. 

They   honor    people  fer  their  bonds  'nd 

railroad  stocks  'nd  such, 
And  for  the  servants  they  can  keep,  'nd 

the  costly  clo's  they  wear — 
They  haven't  any  kind  of  use  fer  such  as 

me,  up  there ! 

I'm  glad  to  be  at  home  agin — back  here 

upon  the  place 
Where   I   was  born,    'nd  where  I'm   not 

afraid  to  show  my  face — 
Kere  where  I'm  just  as  good  as  any  one 

that  I  may  meet, 
And  where  I  do  not  have  to  walk  behind 

folks  in  the  street ! 
I  wish  that  I'd  not  went  up  there  at  all, 

'nd  that  I  had 
My  little  Laura  Belle  agin,  to  love  'nd  pet 

her  dad, 
As  long  ago  she  used  to — but  no!    that 

cannot  be — 
Oh  Lord,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  think  that 

she's  ashamed  of  me! 


LITTLE  KATE. 

"Well,   daughter,   you,   of  course,  should 

know  the  best  about  your  name ; 
If  Kathryn's  what  will  suit  you  best,  why 

then  adopt  the  same; 
You've  been  away  to  college,  and  I  s'pose 

you've  learned  a  lot, 
And  you  ought  to  have  as  fine  a  name  as 

any  girl  has  got. 

"No,  I  don't  say  you  mustn't  change  to 

Kathryn — not  at  all, 
The  difference,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  very 

small — 
But,  lawsy  me!      I  can't,  somehow,  keep 

back  the  tears  to-day — 
I  guess  it's  cause  you  look  so  much  like 

her  that's  gone  away. 

''And,  speakin'  of  your  mother,  dear,  it 

seems  as  if  I  jest 
Could  see  her  lyin'  there  again,  with  you 

upon  her  breast — 
Ah,  what  a  glad  look  filled  her  eyes  when 

I  bent  down  and  said 
I'd  call  our  baby  after  her — jest  'fore  her 

spirit  fled 

"I  s'pose  that  I'm  old  fogyish — that  I'm 
'way  out  of  date, 


LITTLE  KATE. 

And  that  it's  foolishness  for  me  to  want 

to  call  you  Kate ; 
But  that's  the  name  that  she  went  by — a 

name  that's  dear  to  me, 
And  when  I  call  you  by  it  I  keep  fresh  her 

memory. 

''Yes,   daughter,   change   to  Kathryn,    if 

that  name  will  suit  you  best, 
But  we  called  you  Kate  the  day  you  lay 

asleep  upon  her  breast — 
There,  there,  my  dear,  don't  cry  no  more 

— you  ain't  a  bit  to  blame — 
I  knew  your  heart  was  true  to  her  and 

that  you'd  keep  her  name." 


10 


WHEN  DAD  GOT  RELIGION. 

I   ain't   no   hand   to  argy;    never  could 

remember  dates, 
And  that's  a  fatal  failin'  for  a  feller  that 

debates; 
I    don't,    jist    now,    remember    whether 

Moses  up  and  smote 
The  rock  before  or  after  Noah  sailed  off 

in  his  boat; 
I  know  that  little  David  knocked  the  giant 

feller  out, 
But  I've  gone  and  clean  forgotten  what 

the  trouble  was  about! 
The  Bible's  full  of  chapters  that  I  never 

understood, 
But  there's  one  thing  I  am  sure  of :  that 

religion's  mighty  good! 

My  step-dad  used  to  be  a  man  that  every 
body  feared; 

The  very  old  horned  devil  had  got  in  him, 
it  appeared ; 

He  used  to  knock  poor  mother  down  and 
drag  her  by  the  hair, 

And  if  I  bared  my  back  to-day,  you'd  see 
his  trade  marks  there ! 

I  couldn't  help  but  trimble  if  he'd  even 
look  my  way, 


WHEN  DAD  GOT  RELIGION. 

And  that'd  make  him  angry,  and,  great 

grief!  the  things  he'd  say! 
On  many  a  night  when  he  was  out  and  I 

had  went  to  bed, 
My  mother'd  kneel  beside  me  and  we'd 

wish  that  we  was  dead ! 

One   winter   they   got   up   a   big   revival 

meetin'  there — 
Church  was  packed — it  seemed  that  we'd 

religion  in  the  air! 
Mourner's  bench  was  crowded  every  night 

for  many  a  week; 
I  tell  you  it'd  raise  your  hair  to  hear  that 

preacher  speak! 
He'd  make  you  think  that  Satan  was  right 

there  behind  your  back, 
To  git  you  if  you  didn't  take  the  straight 

and  narrow  track! 
Night  after  night  I  laid  awake,  afraid  to 

close  my  eyes, 
For  fear  I  might  get  took    because    I'd 

been  a-tellin'  lies. 

Seemed   as    if    dad    looked   jist   like   the 

preacher  pictured  out 
The   old   boy,    in   them    sermons — but   I 

'magined  it,  no  doubt; 
And,  one  night,  when  he  come  and  stood 

beside  the  trundle-bed, 
I  thought  he  meant  to  beat  me,  and  I 

covered  up  my  head ; 
And  then   I    laid   and    trimbled!  I  could 

seem  to  feel  his  blows, 


12 


WHEN  DAD  GOT  RELIGION. 

But  purty  soon  I  felt  him  gently  pullin'  at 

the  clo's, 
And   when   I   bared  my   face    agin  and 

looked  up  at  him,  he 
Stood  there  awhile   and   cried,  and   then 

knelt  down  and  prayed  fer  me. 

He  never    whipped   me  after  that,    nor 

scolded  me  no  more, 
And  I  never  knowed  that  life  was  half  as 

beautiful  before; 
All  the  world  seemed  brighter;  it  appeared 

as  if  the  sun 
Had  got  to  shinin'  fairer  and  a  new  world 

had  begun! 
I'm  not  no  smart  theologist  that's  got  the 

facts  all  pat 
Concernin'  sects  and  creeds  and  forms  and 

all  sich  things  as  that , 
The  Bible's  full  of  passages  I  never  under 
stood, 
But   there's   one  thing    I    am    sure    of: 

that  religion's  mighty  good ! 


AN  EASY  MAN. 

Never  seen  an  easier  man  in  all  my  livin' 

days 
Than  my  old  neighbor.  Lisha  Green,  nor 

sich  slow-goin'  ways! 
Knowed  him  from  his  boyhood  up — always 

jist  the  same, 
Never  seemed  to  care  a  cent — took  things 

as  they  came; 
In  the  spring  when  other  folks  would  git 

to  breakin'  ground, 
Lisha'd  wait  fer  fairer  days,  and  jist  keep 

settin'  round. 

Farm  his  father  left  him  was  the  finest 

thereabout, 
But  fences  soon  got  shaky  and  the  weeds 

begin  to  sprout; 
Buildin's  got  to  leakin'  and  the  crops  they 

wouldn't  grow — 
Plastered  on  a  mor'gage — then  the  cattle 

had  to  go ! — 
Still  he  didn't  mind  it,  and  no  one  ever 

found 
Lisha  doin'   anything  but  merely  settin' 

'round. 

Sort  of  dried  up — Lisha  did — and  one  day 
blowed  away, 


AN  EAST  MAN. 

Leavin'  nothin'  back  of  him  but  lots  of 

debts  to  pay. 
Guess  he's  up  in  heaven  now — hope  he  is, 

at  least — 
Know  he  never  purposely  done  harm  to 

man  or  beast ! — 
Mebby  he's  got  golden  wings — mebby  he 

is  crowned — 
Bet  his  wings  are  folded  though  and  that 

he's  settin'  round. 


DEACON  WHITE'S  CONFESSION. 

I've   always    been  a   Christian  man  and 

tried  to  live  upright, 
But  Satan  laid  a  hidjeous  plan  fer  me  the 

other  night: 
I  went  up  to  the  wicked  town  to  see  my 

nephew  Dick, 

And  there  became  the  victim  of  a  low- 
down,  wicked  trick! 
And  here  I  stand  in  meetin'  to  confess  the 

whole  affair — 
I've   got   to   ease    my    conscience   fer   a 

weight  is  restin'  there — 
And   I'll   tell   it  as   it  happened,  of   the 

dancin'  girl  and  all, 
And  I  hope  that  you'll  forgive  me,  fer  the 

best  of  us  may  fall. 

You  know  when  Dick  was  but  a  child,  his 

folks  they  died,  and  so 
I  had  to  take  and  raise   'im  till  a  little 

while  ago; 
And   since   he's   been   up  there  he's  rose 

uncommon  fast,  they  say, 
But  I'm  afraid  he's  started  out  upon  an 

evil  way. 
I  used  to  think  that  Dick  was  just  as  good 

as  he  could  be, 


16 


DEACON  WHITE'S  CONFESSION. 

And  how  I  loved  to  feel  that  he  was  like  a 
son  to  me ! 

But  I'm  afraid  'twas  all  put  on,  fer  other 
wise  he'd  not 

Have  put  his  uncle  into  such  a  fix  as  I 
have  got. 

Him  and  a  friend  of  his  they  said  they  had 

a  treat  in  store, 
"The  likes  of  which  dear  Uncle  Ned  had 

never  seen  before!" 
Well,  they  was  right  concernin'  that!  It 

was  oncommon  new — 
I  hardly  knowed  where  I  was  at,  before 

the  thing  was  through. 
A  gaudy  place  it  was,  and  we  set  up  there 

where  the  folks 
Upon  the  stage  could  look  at  me  and  use 

me  fer  their  jokes — 
They  talked  about  my  whiskers  and  they 

called  me  "Rube"  and  "Josh," 
And      kept     repeatin',      all     the     time, 

"B'golly!"  and"B'gosh!" 

At  last  a  girl  come  out  to  sing — as  purty 

as  could  be — 
But  she  didn't  hardly  wear  a  thing,  as  fur 

as  I  could  see. 
Immejitly  she  turned  to  us  and  then  let 

loose  a  kick 
That  made  my  senses  teeter  jus'  as  if  I 

had  been  sick! 
And   then    she   romped  and  danced  and 

sung  and  tore  around  awhile — 

'7 


DEACON  WHITE'S  CONFESSION. 

But  I  set  stiff  and  solemn  like  and  never 

cracked  a  smile — 
And   so   she   kept  agoin'  on  the  worst  I 

ever  saw, 
Till,  finally,  she  says  to  me:  "You  ain't 

mad,  are  you,  paw?" 

Then   everybody   laughed,  and    Dick    he 

punched  me  in  the  side 
And   him   and   that   there   friend   of   his 

howled  till  they  nearly  died. 
And  'fore  I  knowed  jus'  what  was  up,  the 

girl  was  there  with  me 
A-pullin'  of   my   whiskers   as  familiar  as 

could  be! 
She  called  me  "paw"   and  "baby,"  and 

she  chucked  me  on  the  chin — 
And  me  a-knowin'   all  the  time  it  was  a 

wicked  sin — 
But   what,   I   ask  you,  bretherun — I   ask 

it  face  to  face — 
Could  anyone  of  you  have  done  had  you 

been  in  my  place? 

They  ordered  up  the  wine,  them  two ;  I 

heard  the  glasses  chink, 
And  not  another  thing  would  do  but  I 

must  take  a  drink ! 
The   stuff   it    burned    like    poison!    Her 

breath  was  on  my  cheek — 
But  deep,  deep  down  inside  of  me,  I  heard 

a  small  voice  speak ! 
And,  jumpin'  up,  I  hollered  that  I'd  got 

enough  of  that, 

18 


DEACON  WHITE'S  CONFESSION. 

And  so  I  simply   bolted,   without  either 

coat  or  hat, 
And  I  run   as   if   Old    Nick   himself   was 

comin'  on  behind — 
With  a  weight  upon  my  conscience  and  a 

blur  upon  my  mind! 

And  here  I  stand  a  penitent  before  you  all 

to-day — 
I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  went   to  see  no 

kind  of  play — 
But  I  have  prayed  and  I  have  wept!  I'll 

go  to  town  no  more, 
And,  in  my  heart,  I'm  jus'  as  free  from 

evil  as  before.     *     * 
Ah,  thank  you  for  your  gracious  words! 

They  lift  me  from  the  dust! 
I  raise  my  head  again  and  take  my  stand 

among  the  just! 
I've  told  it  to  you  truly,  of  the  dancin' 

girl  and  all — 
I  knowed  that  you'd  forgive  me,  fer  the 

best  of  us  may  fall r. 


GRANDMA'S  LAMENT. 

When  we  lived  on  the  farm,  pa  used  to  get 

up  with  the  sun, 
And    prophesyin'   weather    was  the   first 

thing  that  he  done ! 
He'd    straighten    up   and  stretch   hisself 

and  yawn  awhile  and  blink, 
And  then  he'd  say!     "It'll  rain  to-day, " 

or  "Clearin*  up,  I  think!" 
He   had   a   hundred   signs,   or   more,    by 

which  he  always  told 
If  it  was  goin'  to  shine  or  pour,  or  turn 

out  hot  or  cold. 

But  others  come  to  live  upon  the  old  place 

long  ago. 
(Dear,  how  I'd  like  to  be  there  now,  to 

see  the  peach  trees  blow!) 
And  pa  he's  lost  his  knack  of  tellin'  what 

it's  goin'  to  do 
Since   we've   got    settled    here  in   town, 

where  everything's  so  new; 
When  he  gets  up  o'   mornin's  now  first 

thing  he's  sure  to  say 
Is:    "Mother,  where's  the  paper?    What's 

the  weather  fer  to-day?" 

Land   sakes!      I   don't,  know   what   this 
world  is  surely  comin'  to! 


20 


GRANDMA'S  LAMENT. 

They  don't  appear  to  be  a  thing  'lectricity 

won't  do! 
It'll  tell  the  weather  days  ahead;  it's  took 

the  horse's  place, 
And  everybody  knows  just  how  it's  wiped 

out  time  and  space! 
They's  scasely  any  day  goes  by  but  some 

inventor  finds 
Some  new  and  startlin'   thing    to   do   to 

upset  people's  minds. 

But  human  nature  ain't  improved,  as  fur 

as  I  can  see, 
And  folks  are  even  colder  now  than  what 

they  used  to  be; 
Each  man  jest  tries,  with  all  his  might,  to 

git  some  other  downed, 
It's  got  to  be  a  general  fight  among  'em 

all  around! 
The  rich  are  richer  than  they  were ;  the 

poor  are  poorer,  too — 
And    if    you   want   to   shine   in   church, 

you've  got  to  rent  a  pew. 

I'm  tired  of  it  and  I  wish  that  I  could 

wake,  my  dears, 
Some  day  and   find   that   things   had  all 

rolled  back  'bout  thirty  years; 
That  all  this  rush  had  been  a  dream — that 

we  was  still  out  there, 
With  the  cows  a-windin'  down  the  lane 

and  sweet  smells  in  the  air, 
And  pa  a-stretchin'  hisself  again  in  that 

old  honest  way, 
And  sayin'   lovin'-like  to  me:     "Yes,  it'll 

be  fair,  to-day!" 

21 


TO-MORROW. 

"Come,  Betsy,  let's  be  cheerful,  'tahrt  no 

use  to  set  'nd  fret; 
I  know  the  crops  look  ragged,  but  they 

may  turn  out  well  yet; 
Your  rheumatis'  is  hurtin',  'nd  my  back 

is  stiff  'nd  sore, 
But  let's  hope  it's  somethin'   better  that 

to-morrow  has  in  store — 
You  know  that  when  the  light  comes,  it  is 

darkest  just  before. 

"Of  course,  I'm  not  pretendin'  that  the 
cares  what  we  have  had 

Was  as  deep  as  this  one  is,  but  some  of 
them  was  purty  bad, 

'Nd  to-morrow — there's  no  tellin' — we 
may  hear  from  John  by  then, 

'Nd  find  that  he's  recovered  'nd  gone 
back  to  work  again." 

The  weeping  mother  murmured  some 
thing  like  a  low  "Amen!" 

The  morrow  came,  and  with   it   came  a 

letter — not  the  one 
That  they  longed  for  and  had  prayed  for. 

yet  it  told  them  of  their  son. 
The  father  wiped   his   glasses  and   readv 

and  then  reread — 


TO-MORROW. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  weighty  thing  had 

struck  him  on  the  head — 
For  the  words  were  staring  at  him,  and 

they  told  him  John  was  dead ! 

"Well,  mother,  he  is  comin',"  thus  the  old 

man  spake  at  last ; 
"The  sickness  that  was  on  'im's  gone,  the 

danger  point  is  past, 
'Nd     he's     comin'     home     to-morrow — 

comin'  back  here  fer  to  stay" — 
She  hurried  to  the  kitchen,  and  old  Jasper 

heard  her  say: — 
"Kill    a   chicken,    he'll   be   hungry   after 

travelin'  all  day." 


UNCLE  HENRY'S  DOWNFALL. 

It  takes  all  kinds  of  people  to  make  up  the 

world,  they  say, 
And  I've  met  a  mighty  lot  of  different 

species,  in  my  day — 
All  with  their  various  hobbies  and  their 

politics  and  creeds, 
The  things  that  poison  one  may  be  just 

what  some  other  needs: 
One  man'll  claim  you  can't  be  saved  unless 

you've  been  immersed, 
While  the  next  one  says  of  all  the  foolish 

doctrines,  that's  the  worst — 
What  one  man  likes  another  scorns,  that 

seems  to  be  the  rule, 
And  the  chap  that  tries  to  please  'em  all 

is  just  a  common  fool. 

Some  folks  can't  stand  the  climate  here 

and  want  to  move  away, 
While   others    think    it's    lovely — or,    at 

least,  that's  what  they  say; 
One  man'll  read  a  story  and  he'll  split  his 

sides  and  roar, 
While  the  next  one  mebby'll  say  he  never 

see  such  rot  before ; 
Some  people  go  to  meetin'  every  Sunday, 

rain  or  clear, 


24 


UNCLE  HENRT'S  DOWNFALL. 

While  other  fellers  hardly  hear  a  sermon 

once  a  year — 
What  one  man  likes  his  neighbor  has  no 

use  for,  as  a  rule, 
And  the  man  that  tries  to  please  'em  all 

is  just  a  common  fool. 

When  you   think  the  weather's  pleasant 

the  first  fellow  that  you  meet, 
As   like   as   not'll    grumble  at  the  cold  or 

else  the  heat; 
They  made  me  school  director  here  about 

a  year  ago, 
And  I  started  out  intendin'  to  give  every 

one  a  show; 
I  tried  to  keep  from  takin'  sides — I  done 

the  best  I  could — 
Last  week  they  kicked  me  out  and  said  I 

wasn't  any  good! 
I  guess  that  every  other  man  is  cranky, 

as  a  rule, 
And  the  chap  that  tries  to  please  'em  all's 

an  ordinary  fool ! 


THE  MISSING  ONE. 

I  don't  think  I'll  go  in  to  town  to  see  the 

boys  come  back ; 
My  bein'   there  would  do  no  good  in  all 

that  jam  and  pack ; 
There'll  be  enough  to  welcome  them — to 

cheer  them,  when  they  come 
A-marchin'  bravely  to  the  time  that's  beat 

upon  the  drum ; 
They'll  never  miss  me  in  the  crowd — not 

one  of  'em  will  care 
If,  when  the  cheers  are  ringin'  loud,  I'm 

not  among  them  there. 

I  went  to  see  them  march  away,  I  hollered 

with  the  rest, 
And    didn't     they     look    fine    that    day 

a-marchin'  four  abreast, 
With  my  boy  James  up  near  the  front,  as 

handsome  as  could  be, 
And   wavin'     back    a    fond    farewell    to 

mother  and  to  me! 
I  vow  my  old  knees  trimbled  so  when  they 

had  all  got  by, 
I  had  to  jist  set  down  upon  the  curbstone 

there  and  cry. 

And  now  they're  comin'  home  agen!   The 
record  that  they  won 


26 


THE  MISSING  ONE. 

Was  sich  as  shows  we  still  have  men  when 

men's  work's  to  be  done! 
There  wasn't  one  of   'em  that  flinched — 

each  feller  stood  the  test — 
Wherever  they  were  sent  they  sailed  right 

in  and  done  their  best! 
They    didn't    go    away    to     play;     they 

knowed  what  was  in  store ; 
But  there's  a  grave  somewhere,  to-day, 

down  on  the  Cuban  shore! 

I  guess  that  I'll  not  go  to  town  to  see  the 

boys  come  in; 
I  don't  jist  feel  like  mixin'   up  in  all  that 

crush  and  din ! 
There'll  be  enough  to  welcome  them — to 

cheer  them  when  they  come 
A-marchin'  bravely  to  the  time  that's  beat 

upon  the  drum. 
And  the  boys'll  never  notice — not  a  one 

of  'em  will  care, 
For  the  soldier  that  would  miss  me  ain't 

a-goin'  to  be  there! 


"THEY'VE  NAMED  HIM 
AFTER  ME." 

I  never  liked  that  Amos  Gray, 

Somehow  he  seemed  to  be 
A  sort  of  schemer  in  his  way 

And  so  it  bothered  me 
Like  sixty  when   he   started   home   from 

church,  one  Sunday  night, 
With   our   Alice,  and  they  sot,  without  a 

spark  o'  light, 
A-talkin'  and  a-laughin'  till 

Away  past  one  o'clock, 
With  ma  a-frettin'  fit  to  kill, 
And  me  as  mad's  a  hawk! 

You  see  I've  got  the  finest  place 

In  this  hull  township,  and 
The  way  I  figgered  out  the  case 

Young  Gray  had  simply  planned 
To  marry  in  the  fambly  and  take  hold  and 

run  affairs, 
And  so  I  told  him  plainly  that  we  seen  his 

cunnin'  snares! 
If  him  and  Alice  had  to  go 

And  marry,  well  and  good, 
But  I  took  care  to  let  him  know 
How  matters  reely  stood ! 


28 


"THRIVE  NAMED  HIM  AFTER  ME." 

'Course  Alice  praised  him  up  and  cried 

And  got  her  mother  won, 
And  then  they  both  pitched  in  and  tried 

To  git  me  on  the  run, 
But   I   had   took   my   stand   and   there  I 

vowed  that  I  would  stay, 
And  so,  one  day  the  words  was  said  and 

the  young  folks  went  away ! 
My  grief!  how  lonesome  it  did  seem 

When  Alice  wa'n't  about; 
Sometimes  I  wanted  jist  to  scream 
To  chase  the  silence  out. 

Well,  that  was  'bout  a  year  ago, 

And  last  night  Amos  he 
Come  tearin'  down  to  let  us  know 
They'd  named  him  after  me — 
I  mean  the  little  boy  they've  got — I've 

jist  been  up  with  wife, 
And  I  never  seen  as  fine  a  child  as  him  in 

all  my  life ! 
And  smart !     By  George,  when  I  stood 

there, 

As  quiet  as  could  be, 
He      woke      and      smiled — he      did — I 

swear ! — 
And  they've  named  him  after  me! 

They  say  he's  got  my  chin  and  nose, 

His  eyes  are  like  mine,  too; 
From  his  curly  head  clear  to  his  toes, 
He's  like  me  through  and  through ! 
I'm  goin'  up  to  town  to-day,  to  deed  the 
farm  away, 

29 


"THETVE  NAMED  HIM  AFTER  ME." 

I'm  tired  workin'  and  I  give  the  place  to 

Amos  Gray ; 
We'll  all  live  here  and  part  no  more, 

I've  got  'em  to  agree — 
Say,  did  I  mention  it  before? 
They've  named  him  after  me: 


ONLY  A  WOMAN. 

He  used  to  treat  her  shameful!  I  have 
heard  the  neighbors  say 

That  they  wouldn't  think  of  usin'  a  com 
mon  cur  that  way! 

Let  her  slave  until  her  back  ached  and 
her  fingers  fairly  bled, 

And  once  he  thro  wed  a  hatchet  that  jist 
barely  missed  her  head ! 

She  would  do  a  hard  day's  sewin',  and 
then  he'd  come  home  at  night 

And  abuse  her  if  the  supper  didn't  happen 
to  be  right. 

She  might  of  married  better,  for  she  used 

to  be  as  sweet 
And  as  fair  a  little  maiden  as  a  feller'd 

care  to  meet ; 
Her  cheeks  was  round  and  rosy,  and  her 

eyes'd  set  you  wild, 
And  the  world   seemed  mighty  pleasant 

when  she  looked  at  you  and  smiled! 
Had  an  ankle  that   was  lovely,  and  her 

form  was  plump  and  trim — 
And  everybody  wondered  when  she  went 

and  married  him. 

I  s'pose  she  thought,  like  other  foolish 
girls  have  thought  before, 


ONLT  A    WOMAN. 

That  she'd  make  him  quit  his  drinkin', 

but  he  only  drunk  the  more — 
Went  from  bad  to  worse  the  minute  that 

she'd  given  him  her  hand, 
And   the   way   she'd   stick  up  for  him  I 

could  never  understand — 
Law,  she'd  flare  up  like  a  wildcat  when 

her  f oiks' d  interfere — 
But,  alas,  her  girlish  beauty  soon  begun 

to  disappear ! 

One  night,  they  say,  he  choked  her — Gol, 

I  wish  that  I'd  been  there! — 
Knocked  her  down  and  beat  and  dragged 

her  round  the  kitchen  by  the  hair ! 
And  so,  with  tears  a-streamin'  down  her 

face,  she  went  away 
To  the  home  in  which  she  hadn't  set  a 

foot  for  many  a  day — 
Went  and  laid  her  achin'  head  upon  her 

weepin'  mother's  breast — 
Meekly  went  and  sobbed  and  snuggled  in 

the  old  home  nest. 

After  while  we  seen  the  roses  bloomin'  on 

her  cheeks  agin, 
And  she  hadn't  lost  the  purty  little  dimple 

from  her  chin, 
And  in  spite  of  all  the  sorrow  and  the 

troubles  she'd  been  through 
She  was  jist  as  sweet  as  ever — and  a  little 

sweeter,  too! — 
And   the   folks   begin   to   gossip,   as   you 

know,  folks  always  will, 

32 


ONLT  A    WOMAN. 

And  wonder  why  she  didn't  hurry  up  and 
get  a  bill. 

He  kept  on,  when  she  had  left  him,  in  his 

old  disgraceful  way; 
No  one  knew  jist  how  he  managed — but 

it  leaked  out  yisterday 
That  he'd  got  some  sort  of  fever,  and  in 

order  to  git  through, 
He'd  have  to   have  a   doctor   and   some 

tender  nursin',  too! — 
O  she  smiled  at  me,  one  mornin',  and  the 

whole  world  seemed  to  swim ! 
She  is  lovelier  than  ever — but  she's  goin' 

back  to  him ! 


33 


UNCLE  RUFUS  IN  THE  CITY. 

Been  a-livin'  in  town  with  my  boy  James, 

now  goin'  on  'leven  years, 
But  I  ain't  got  used  to  it  yit,  by  gum! 

This  city  life  appears 
To  jest  knock  all  your  energy  out, 

'N'  leave  you  sort  of  dead! 
I'm  too  blame  tired  to  git  about, 

'N'  I've  a  buzzin'  in  my  head! 
I  guess  it's  the  noise  of  the  cars  'n'  things 

that  rings  in  my  ears  all  day, 
'N',  oh  but  I  wish  I  could  eat  'n'  sleep  in 

the  good,  old-fashioned  way ! 

I'd  like  to   be  back    on  the    farm  agin, 

where  the  buds  is  sproutin'  now, 
'N',  Lord,  how  I'd  like  to  rise  with  the 

sun  'n'  git  out  behind  the  plow! 
Turnin'   the  mellow  furrow   along 

Up  over  the  slopin'  hill, 
'N'  hearin'  some  farm  hand's  happy  song 
Mixed  up  with  his  "Haw,  there,  Bill!" 
Seein"  the  crows  a-circlin'  round,  way  up 

in  the  clear  blue  sky, 
'N'  hearin'  mother  blowin'  the  horn  fer 

breakfast,  by  'n'  by. 

I'd  like  to  stop  at  the  end  of  the  field  'n' 
feel  the  country  breeze, 


34 


UNCLE  RUFUS  IN  THE  CITT. 

As  it  comes  through  the  orchard  on  the 

hill  with  the  scent  of    the  bloomin' 

trees ; 
'N'  I'd  like  to  smell  the  sweet  wood  smoke 

That  comes  from  the  burnin'  brush, 
'N'    instead    of    the    sparrow's   tiresome 

croak 

I'd  hear  the  song  of  the  thrush! 
'N',  then,    to   wash   in   the   old   tin   pail 

with  mother  standin'  there — 
What's   this?     Tears   tricklin'   down   my 

face?     Well,  I'm  cryin',  I  declare! 

I've  lost  my  appetite,   somehow,  since  I 

ain't  got  nothin'  to  do, 
'N'  the  days  jest  seem  to  come  because 

they've  got  to  be  worried  through! 
Out  yonder  the  trees  are  in  blossom  now, 
As  they  blossomed  when  I  was  there ; 
But  some  one  else  is  guidin'  the  plow 

'N'  breathin'  the  scented  air, 
'N'    mother's   asleep   on    the   grassy   hill 

beneath  the  poplar  tree — 
'N'  I  wish  the  leaves  it's  puttin'  forth  was 

also  to  shelter  me ! 


35 


BENEATH  OLD  GLORY. 

I  was  down  to  the  postoffice   'tother  day,. 
Settin'  there  and  whittlin'  away 

While  Hammond  sorted  the  letters, 
"When  all  of  a  sudden  it  come  to  me 
How  happy  a  feller  ought  to  be 
That's  born  in  this  glorious  land  of  the 
free, 

Where  no  one  kneels  to  his  betters. 

There  was  the  flag  above  my  head, 
With  the  stars  and  the  blue  and  the  white 
and  the  red, 

And  I  watched  it  float  and  flutter ; 
And  it  made  me  proud  to  know  that  I 
Was  as  good  as  any  man  under  the  sky 
And  wasn't  compelled  to  help  supply 

Some  prince's  bread  and  butter. 

But  presently  Silas  Gifford  he 

Come  strollin'  along  and  set  down  by  me,. 

And  then  he  begin  to  grumble: 
Nothin'  seemed  to  be  goin'  right, 
Potatoes  were  poor  and  corn  was  a  sight — 
Wheat  had  been  injured  by  the  blight, 

And  rye  had  taken  a  tumble. 

I  whittled  away  and  listened  awhile, 
And  then  says  I:     "Look  here  now,  Sile, 
What's  the  use  of  your  frettin'? 


BENEATH  OLD  GLORT. 

Look  at  the  starry  flag  up  there ; 
Look  at  them  stripes  wave  in  the  air — 
Man,  think  what  it  is  to  be  settin'   where 
You're  lucky  enough  to  be  settin' !" 

He  set  and  looked  and  I  heard  him  sigh, 
And  I  saw  his  face  flush,  by  and  by — 

He'd  forgotten  his  doleful  story; 
And  then  he  stood  up  and  he  says  to  me : 
*'Lord,  ain't  it  great/'    he   says,   "to   be 

free — 
To  be  an  American" — says  he — 

"And  stand  beneath  Old  Glory!" 


37 


AN   EVERY-DAY  WONDER. 

I've  lived  in  this  here  world  of  ours,  now> 

sixty  years  and  more, 
And  things  don't  seem  to  strike  me  just 

as  they  have  heretofore; 
I've  been  a-thinkin'  hard  about  a  lot  of 

things  of  late, 
And  folks  I  once  despised  I  sort  of  look 

upon  as  great. 

For  instance,  there  is  old  De  Gull,  who's 

owin'  every  one; 
I  used  to  hold  him  up  as  an  example  for 

to  shun, 
But  though  he's  deep  down  in  the  hole, 

just  see  the  way  he  lives, 
And    think   of    all   the    parties   and   the 

charity  he  gives ! 

I  work   for   what   I  have,  and  don't  owe 

any  man  a  dime, 
While  he  rides  'round  in  carriages,  and 

has  a  gorgeous  time ; 
He  goes  in  high  society  and  lives   'most 

like  a  king, 
While  folks  don't  think  that  I  amount  to 

scarcely  anything. 

Now,  what  I  wanted  to  get  at  was  some 
thing  like  this  here: 


AN  EVERT-DAT  WONDER. 

It  takes  a  genius  to  be  a  fraud,  and  yet 

appear 
As  if  he  was  the  greatest  man  a  person 

ever  saw, 
Who  makes  the  folks  he  owes  stand  off 

and  gaze  at  him  in  awe. 


39 


UNCLE  HENRY  ON  THEOLOGY. 

They  say  that  story   'bout  the  whale  and 

Jonah  isn't  true. 
And    now    they've    gone — the   preachers 

have — and  tackled  David,  too; 
They  say  he  didn't  write  the  Psalms,  at 

least,  not  nearly  all — 
I   wonder  what'll  be  the   next  good  old 

belief  to  fall? 

They've    even   thrown   suspicion   on   the 

birth  of  Moses,  and 
The   princess   who   discovered  him  down 

there  in  Egypt  land — 
They   say   there  ain't  no  fiery   lake,    no 

devil,  therefore  no 
Such  place  as  that  which  used  to  make 

the  sinners  tremble  so. 

They've  said   that  Noah's   ark   is   just  a 

piece  of  fiction,  too. 
And  that  the  tale  of  Daniel  in  the  lion's 

den  ain't  true; 
They've  said  that  Adam's  just  a  myth, 

they've  said  the  same  of  Eve — 
I  wonder  if  there's  anything  they'll  leave 

us  to  believe? 

They  ridicule  old  Joshua  for  pointin'  at 
the  sun, 

40 


UNCLE  HENRT  ON  THEOLOGT. 

And  tellin'  it  to  stop — they  say  the  thing 
was  never  done; 

They've  taken  up  the  patriarchs  and  ques 
tioned  all  their  acts; 

They  say  the  Bible's  quite  a  book,  but 
rather  shy  of  facts. 

Well,  let  'em  preach  and  let  'em  lay  the 

whole  great  structure  low ! 
I  s'pose  they  have  to  talk  that  way  'cause 

people  want  it  so; 
The  good  book  doesn't  suit  some  folks  at 

all,  but  as  for  me — 
I'm  satisfied  to  keep  the  faith  I  got  at 

mother's  knee. 


NELLIE'S  FELLER. 

You  know  there's  always  someone  in  each 

neighborhood  that  stands 
Above  the  other  people,  for  his  fam'ly  or 

his  lands, 
Or  because  he's  reely  smart  enough  to  jist 

go  right  ahead 
And  take  the  lead  in    ev'rything  that's 

ever  done  or  said, 
For   folks,    in   that    respect,  are  like  the 

quackin'  geese  that  fly 
Behind  some  knowin'  gander  as  they  trail 

across  the  sky — 
From   the  army  to  the  hay  field  it's  the 

same  the  whole  way  through, 
There  must  always  be  a  leader  if  there's 

anything  to  do. 

Well,  the   man   who   sort   of   run   things 

down  in  our  neighborhood 
Was  a  feller  by  the  name  of — let's  see — 

s'pose  we  call  'im  Wood; 
He  owned  three  of  the  finest  farms  within 

a  dozen  miles, 
And  the  common  supposition  was  that  he 

had  wealth  in  piles, 
And    in    addition    to    them     things,    he 

measured  six  foot  one, 


NELLIE'S  FELLER. 

And  had  a  reputation  for  the  fightin'  he 
had  done — 

Moreover,  he'd  a  daughter,  jist  as  hand 
some  as  a  rose, 

Who,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  had  forty- 
'leven  beaux. 

One  day  there  come  along  a  chap  from 

York  State  who  began 
To    work    for    Henry    Holman — sort   of 

quiet,  slender  man 
Along     somewhere     about     the    age    of 

twenty-three  or  four, 
And  Nellie  Wood  soon  tired  of  the  beaux 

she'd  had  before ; 
But  jist  about  the  time  that  her  and  this 

young  man  agreed 
That  they  had  ought  to  marry,  her  old 

dad  decided  he'd 
Step  in  and  take  a  hand!     Ordered  John 

to  vanish,  nor  never  come  agen — 
Said  his  girl  could  have  her  pick  of  fifty 

better  men. 

But  they  kept  on  a-lovin'  and  a-meetin' 

here  and  there, 
And,  of   course,  the    busy-bodies   had   to 

follow  the  affair, 
Until     one     evenin'     John    was    at    the 

Corners,  in  the  store, 
When   suddenly   there    was   a   hush,    for 

loomin'  in  the  door 
Was  Nellie's  dad  about  as  mad   as  any 

man  could  get, 

43 


NELLIE'S  FELLER. 

And  he  went  for  that  young  feller  like  a 

hurricane,  you  bet! 
He  didn't  stop  to  argue,  nor  to  throw  his 

coat  aside, 
But,  without  a  word  of  warnin'  started  in 

to  tan  his  hide. 

They  say  that  kegs  and  boxes  was  sent 

whirlin'  ev'rywhere, 
And  that  legs  and  arms  and  coat  tails  was 

a-spinnin'  in  the  air; 
They  was  rippin',  they  was  tearin',  they 

was  whiskers  floatin'  round, 
They  sent  the  show-case  flyin',  and  spilled 

groceries  by  the  pound ; 
They  tumbled  over  barrels  and  they  ham 
mered,  till,  at  last 
John   got   the  old   man  under  where  he 

held  him  hard  and  fast — 
Held  him  there  and  choked  him — then, 

without  a  word  to  say 
Got    up    and    brushed    his   clothin'    and 

serenely  walked  away. 

Of  course  you  know  what  happened  then — 

John  took  the  girl  and  went, 
But  they  didn't,  like  so  many  do,  come 

back  home  penitent ; 
He  got  a  job  in  town  and  'twa'n't  so  very 

long  before 
We  heard  the  feller'd  went  and  bought  an 

interest  in  a  store. 
But  Nellie's  dad,  he,   somehow,   had  the 

hardest  kind  of  luck, 


44 


NELLIE'S  FELLER. 

From  that  time  on,  that  any  man  in  this 

world  ever  struck — 
Everything  he  touched  jist  seemed  to  go 

to  pieces,  and 
'Twa'n't  long  before  they  took  away  the 

last  rod  of  his  land. 

Let's  see — it's   'leven  years  since  I  come 

in  to  town  to  stay — 
My  cracky !  how  the  months  and  years  do 

seem  to  slip  away! 
I  guess  the  time  has  passed  so  fast  because 

I've  never  had 
Sich  happiness  as  this  since  she  was  here 

to  make  me  glad — 
I  mean  my  daughter's  mother,  who  had 

died  long,  long  before 
The  episode  I  mentioned  which  occurred 

there  in  the  store, 
And   the   little   grassy   mound   upon  the 

hillside  where  she  lies 
Is  the   only  thing  that  makes  me  like  to 

keep  up  the  old  ties.     *     *     * 

Yes,  the  names  that  I've  referred  to  was 

to  throw  you  off  the  track; 
It  was  me  that  got  the  lickin'  and  was  all 

tore  up  the  back, 
And  my  son-in-law's  the   smartest  little 

man  in  this  here  town, 
"With  something  like  a  half  a  million  dollars 

salted  down! 
And  him  and  Nellie's  jist  like  two  young 

spoonin'  lovers  yet, 


45 


NELLIE1  S  FELLER. 

Enjoyin'    all    the    comforts    that    good 

money's  made  to  get. 
With   their   little  ones   around   them,  all 

as  happy  as  can  be, 
And    makin"    this    old     world    a    reg'lar 

Paradise  f er  me ! 


THE  MAN  WHO  ONLY  SMILED. 

I  never  saw  a  man  as  free  from  what  is 

known  as  care 
As  Ira  Hamlin  used  to  be — it  seemed  to 

me,  I  swear, 
Sometimes,  as  if  the  feller  must  jist  laugh 

the  whole  day  through 
And  keep  his  smilin'   up  at  night,  while 

he  was  sleepin',  too; 
Never  used  to  meet  him  but  he'd  have  a 

word  to  say 
To  kind  of  cheer  a  feller  up  and  drive  the 

blues  away. 

I  mind  the  time  his  horse  was  killed — the 

best  one  that  he  had — 
He  never  gave  a  sign  to  show  that  he  was 

feelin'  bad; 
Jist     kept    a    smilin'     countenance    and 

worked  away  the  same 
As  if  he'd  lost  a  nickel  in  a  friendly  little 

game; 
Nothin'    seemed    to    break     him    down; 

always  crackin'  jokes — 
Makin'   light  of  things  that  would  have 

worried  other  folks. 

One  fall  his  boy  was  taken  sick — none  of 
the  doctors  knew 


47 


THE  MAN  WHO  ONLY  SMILED. 

Jist  what  the  trouble  was,  and  so  he  lay 

all  winter  through 
A-hoverin'  'twixt  life  and  death — still  Ira 

smiled  away — 
Always  had   his   joke,  or   else   a  hopeful 

word  to  say. — 
But  when  the  trees  began  to  bud  and  the 

birds  began  to  mate 
They  laid  his  little  boy  away,  up  by  the 

graveyard  gate. 

We  watched  'im,  as  he  stood  beside  the 

little  grave  up  there, 
But    no    one   saw    'im   shed    a    tear — he 

didn't  seem  to  care — 
And  when  the  last  words  had  been  said, 

he  simply  turned  away, 
And  went  about  his  work  again,  with  not 

a  word  to  say — 
A-smilin'  as  he  always  had,  and,  in  a  day 

or  so, 
A-jokin'  as  if  sorrow  was  a  thing  he  didn't 

know. 

Well,   I  jist  couldn't  stand  it!     He  was 

plowin'  on  the  hill: 
At  first  I  says:     "No,  what's  the  use?" 

and  then  says  I :     "I  will!" — 
So  I  went  up,  and  we  set  down,  upon  the 

old  wood  sled, 
And  he  began  to  crack  his  jokes,  and  then 

I  up  and  said 
I  couldn't,  fer  the   life  of  me,    see   how 

'twas  any  one 

48 


THE  MAN  WHO  ONLT  SMILED. 

Could  throw  his  burdens  off  and  go  ahead, 
as  he  had  done. 

"I   don't   believe, "  says  I,  ''that  you  are 

built  like  other  folks: 
I've  never  seen  you  feelin'  blue — you're 

always  crackin'  jokes; 
Don't  sorrow  never  git  into  your  breast 

and  rankle  there? 
Or  has  the  Good  Lord  made  you  so  you 

never  have  a  care? — 
But  Ira'd  put  his  face  into  his  hands  and 

bent  his  head, 
And  I'd  a  given  all  the  world  to  take  back 

what  I  said. 

I  never  heard  such  sobs  before !     We  set 

there  half  a  day, 
And  never  said  a  single  word,  for  he  jist 

wept  away; 
Seemed  as  if  the  sorrow  he'd  escaped  in 

former  years 
Had  all  come  on  'im  in  a  flood,  and  same 

way  with  his  tears; 
But   when,  at   last   he'd   wiped   his  eyes, 

he  turned  around  to  me, 
And  then  between  his    sobs,    in    sort    of 

chokin'  words,  says  he: 

"I've    tried    to    keep    a    cheerful   face, 

because  I  didn't  care 
To  burden  other  folks  with  woes  that  God 

gave  me  to  bear ; 


49 


THE  MAN  WHO  ONLT  SMILED. 

They've  troubles  of  their  own;  I  thought 

that  smilin'  was  the  best, 
Yet  often  when  I've  laughed  'twas  jist  to 

ease  my  achin'  breast — 
But  now,  it  seems,   you  want  a  man  to 

mope  and  moan  and  groan, 
Instead  of  keepin'  back  his  tears  till  he 

can  be  alone — 


I'd  nothin'  more  to  say,  and  so  that  night 

when  all  was  still 
I  hunted  out  the  little  grave  up  yonder  on 

the  hill, 
And  there  I  stopped  beside  the  gate  and 

leaned  against  the  bars, 
And  saw  him  kneelin'  by  the  mound  and 

lookin'  toward  the  stars. 


MA'S  BOY,  ART. 

Have  you  ever  seen  it  stormin*  when  it 

seemed  that  every  tree 
Would  be  ripped  up  by  the  roots,  and  all 

the  furies  were  set  free? 
When  the  earth  jist  fairly  trimbled  under 

angry  Nature's  wrath, 
And  destruction  seemed  in  store  for  every 

object  in  'er  path? 
When  the  rain  come  down  so  hard   the 

drops  appeared  to  have  been  sent 
Like    rattlin'   shot    hurled    out  of    some 

destructive  instrument? — 
Well,  that's  about  the  sort  of  mood  that 

dad  was  in  the  day 
That  him  and  Arthur  quarreled,  and  the 

latter  went  away. 

" Don't  never  dare  to  set  your  foot  inside 

my  door  again!" 
Them  were  the  words  dad  shouted,  and 

his  face  was  livid  then. 
And   Art   was   full   of   foolish    pride — he 

grabbed  his  hat  and  went — 
He  scorned  the  bill  dad  offered  him — he 

wouldn't  take  a  cent! 
He  wouldn't  be  beholdin'  for  a  thing  to 

dad,  he  swore — 


MA'S  EOT,  ART. 

It  seems  to  me  I  see  him  now,  a-standin' 

in  the  door, 
With  mother  hangin'   on  his  neck — and, 

oh,  her  piercin'  cry! 
For  full  a  month  I  don't  believe  her  eyes 

were  ever  dry ! 

We  plowed  and  planted  and  we  hoed — the 

summer  wore  away, 
And  every  night  when  bedtime  come,  and 

mother  knelt  to  pray, 
I'd  hear  her   ask   the   Lord   to   send  his 

richest  blessin'  down 
Upon   her   boy,   away    alone,   up    in   the 

wicked  town! 
And  often  she  would   look   at   dad,  with 

pleadin'  eyes  that  said 
The  words  she  didn't  dare   to  speak;  but 

he  would  shake  his  head, 
And  close  his  lips,  and  clinch  his  fists,  and 

then  she'd  hide  'er  face, 
And  a  sort  of  lonesome  sadness  seemed  to 

hang  around  the  place. 

Such  crops  as  seemed  worth  harvestin'  we 

put  away,  some  how ; 
We  hadn't  more  than  hay  enough  to  half 

fill  up  a  mow — 
But  we  raised  a  flock  of  turkeys  that  was 

far  the  best  around ! — 
We'd  a  gobbler  dad  declared  would  tip  the 

scale  at  forty  pound : 
"I'll  try  to  sell  the  others  off  ThanksgivuT 

week."  he  said. 


MA'S  BOT,  ART. 

"'But  I'm  goin'  to  keep  that  gobbler,  and 

we  won't  chop  off  his  head! 
Somehow,  I  kind  of  like  the  way  he  lords 

it  with  the  rest, 
For   a   heart   is   good,  but   still   I   like   a 

haughty  spirit  best!" 

The  day  before  Thanksgivin'   come,  and 

dad  drove  down  the  lane; 
The  wind  was  raw,  and  sleety  drops  come 

rattlin'  on  the  pane, 
And   mother  set  there  thinkin' — then  she 

give  a  frightened  start — 
The  door  was  softly  opened,  and  I  looked, 

and  there  was  Art, 
So  white  and  thin  and  haggard  that,  at 

first  it  seemed  almost 
As  if  it  couldn't  be  himself,  but  just  his 

hungry  ghost — 
And  mother !     Oh,  her  voice  is  still  these 

many,  many  years, 
But  the  cry  she  give  rings  just  as  plain  as 

ever  in  my  ears! 

That   afternoon,    when   dad  come  home, 

Art  hid  away,  up  stairs, 
And  mother  bustled  'round  and  tried  to 

not  expose  affairs, 
But  dad  was  hardly  in  the  house  before  he 

stopped  and  said : 
*  What's   goin'    on?      I   want   the   truth! 

I'm  not  a  punkin'  head!" 
Then  mother,  trimblin*  like  a  leaf,  ketched 

hold  of  Arthur's  hand, 


53 


MA'S  SOT,  ART. 

And  led  him  slowly  to  the  spot  where  dad 

had  took  his  stand — 
And  Art  stood  there  and  looked  at  dad, 

and  dad  looked  back  at  Art, 
And  mother  prayed  in  whispers  for  the 

Lord  to  touch  his  heart. 

It  seemed  an  hour  that  they  stood — then 

mother  she  give  way : 
"He's   starved   and   sick,"    she    cried   to 

dad,  "please  say  that  he  can  stay!" 
At  last,  dad  turned,  without  a  word,  and 

left  the  room,  and  then 
We   set   and   wondered    till,    at   last,    we 

heard  his  step  again. 
He'd   gone   and   killed    the    gobbler — he 

brought  him  in  and  said : 
"He  had  a  splendid  spirit,  and  he  held  a 

haughty  head — • 
But  his  head  is  low,  at  present,  and  he's 

lost  his  spirit,  too — 
How  about  Thanksgivin',   mother?      I'll 

jist  leave  it  all  to  you." 


54 


THE  HIRED    MAN'S   CONFESSION. 

I  got  to  thinkin'   t'other  day,  about  this 

world's  affairs; 
How  some  folks  have  it  easy,   and  how 

some  are  bent  with  cares ; 
How  some  must  work  from  mornin'  till 

the  sun  sinks  in  the  West, 
And  other  people  only  do  the  things  that 

suit  'em  best — 
I  set  there  while  the  horses  switched  the 

buzzin'  flies  away, 
And    I   thought   how   I   had  got  to  keep 

a-slavin'  every  day, 
While    them    wealthy    summer  boarders 

that  had  come  to  us  from  town, 
Spent    the   money    that    their    dads,    no 

doubt,  had  earned  and  salted  down. 

And,  referrin'  to  them  boarders,  there  is 

one  among  'em  who 
Is   the   beautifullest   maiden   any   mortal 

ever  knew; 
Oh,  her  voice  is  just  like  music  and  she's 

got  an  angel's  face, 
And  since  she  come  she's  sort  of  made  a 

heaven  of  the  place, 
And  I've  often  set  and  watched  her  and 

then  wished  that  I  could  be 


55 


THE  HIRED   MAN'S  CONFESSION. 

Rich  and  handsome  like  them  others,  so 
that  she  would  notice  me — 

But,  of  course,  I'm  just  a  farmer,  with 
big,  bony,  calloused  hands, 

Only  fit  to  love  in  secret  every  spot  on 
which  she  stands. 

And  while  I  set  there,  thinkin',  she  come 

poppin'  in  my  mind, 
And  then  I  got  to  dreamin'  and  my  cares 

were  left  behind — 
Got    to   thinkin'    of   myself  as   rich   and 

handsome  and  forgot 
All   about   the   tired   horses   standin*  out 

there  in  the  lot! 
But  that  couldn't  last  forever,  there  was 

work  I  had  to  do, 
And  I  dropped  down  out  of  Cloudland, 

wishin'  all  of  it  was  true, 
And  I  rose  up  where  I'd  rested,  in  the 

corner  by  the  tree, 
And   my   heart   stood   still,   for   she   was 

standin'  there  in  front  of  me! 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened,   but  we 

stood  there  in  the  shade, 
And  I  said  a  lot  of  things  that  sounded 

foolish,  I'm  afraid — 
At  least,  I  know  I  told  her  how  I'd  got  to 

slave  away, 
And  how  I'd  planned  to  go  and  get  a  job 

in  town  some  day — 
How  I'd  like  to  have  white  hands  and  dress 

in  stylish  clothin',  too, 

56 


THE  HIRED  MAN'S    CONFESSION. 

How  I'd  like  to  go  and  mingle  with  the 

people  that  she  knew ! 
And  how  my  face  was  burnin',  and  my 

heart,  oh,  how  it  beat! 
And  all  the  while  she  stood  there,  gazin' 

straight  down  at  her  feet. 

After  while  she  looked  up  at  me,  and  I 

never  shall  forget 
How   sad  and    sweet  her  smile  was  and 

I  hear  her  talkin'  yet! 
"You  must  work,  it  is  your  fortune,  and 

your  hands  are  big  and  bruised, 
But  to  work  is  only  manly — "  them's  the 

very  words  she  used — 
"And  the  man  whose  hands  are  softest 

and  whose  clothing  is  the  best 
Doesn't  always  have  the  bravest,  purest 

heart  within  his  breast; 
You  must  work,  while  over  yonder  men 

put  in  their  time  at  play, 
But  to  me  you're  worth  a  dozen  of  those 

others,  any  day." 

Then  she  shook  my  hand  and  left  me,  and 

I  took  the  reins  agen, 
And  workin',  somehow,  seemed  to  be  all 

fired  easy  then ! 
Of   course,   I   know   she   only   said   them 

words  to  ease  my  mind, 
Said  'em  only,  heaven  bless  'er,  'cause  she 

wanted  to  be  kind, 
But  although  I  know  I  never  could  expect 

that  such  as  she 


57 


THE  HIRED  MAN'S    CONFESSION. 

Would  forsake  the  world  she  lives  in,  or 

could  love  the  likes  of  me, 
Far  down  into  my  bosom  I  have  hid  her 

words  away — 
Words  she  never   meant,    I  reckon — but 

which  cheer  me  on,  to-day. 


THE  OTHER  MAN'S  BOY. 

"If  that  there  boy  belonged  to  me,"  said 

Deacon  Holliday, 
"I'd  hate  to  tell  you  what  I'd  do  to  make 

'im  change  his  way. 
I'd  thrash   'im  till  he    couldn't  see;  I'd 

chase  'im  from  the  place! 
There  ain't  no  use  of  bein'   mild  or  kind 

in  such  a  case. 
His  father  surely  ought  to  know  that  he 

is  doin'  wrong 
To  spare  the  rod  and  let  'im  go  his  own 

way  right  along — 
Laws!     If  that  boy  was  mine,  I'll  bet  I'd 

make  'im  change  his  way; 
I'd   lick   'im   till   he   couldn't   set!"    said 

Deacon  Holliday. 

The  Deacon  had  a  little  son  who  grew,  as 

boys  will  grow, 
And  every  boy  must  have  his  fun,  or  he's 

no  boy,  you  know ! 
The   outraged  neighbors    wondered  why 

the  Deacon  was  so  mild, 
They  marveled  that  the  father  spared  the 

rod  and  spoiled  the  child. 
In  every  plot,  however  dark,  that  bad  boy 

had  a  share ; 


59 


THE  OTHER  MAWS  EOT. 

And   on   two   brows   he   left  his  mark  in 

many  a  whitened  hair ! 
Ah,  the  Deacon  had  a  little  son,  who  grew 

as  boys  will  grow, 
And  the  Deacon,  when  all's  said  and  done, 

was  just  a  man,  you  know! 


60 


WHEN  THE  RIFFLE  IS  MADE. 

I  s'pose  I  should  feel  like  a  man  to-day  fer 

the  first  time  in  my  life, 
Although  I  come  purty  nigh  feelin'  that 

way  when  Mollie  was  made  my  wife; 
And  that  night  when  our  little  Albert  was 

born,  gol,  didn't  I  sort  of  rise 
Right  up  in  my  boots  and  feel  as  if  I'd 

got  about  growed  full  size! 
Still,  they   was   somethin'    I   needed   yit, 

and  oh,  it  was  far  away ! 
But  I  buckled  down  and  I  worked  fer  it — 

and  the  farm  is  mine  to-day ! 

When  Mollie  and  me  commenced,  I  guess 

I'd  a  hunderd  dollars  or  so, 
And   she  pitched  in  and  she  helped  me 

save,  but  Moses!  wasn't  it  slow! 
Many  and  many  a  time  I've  gone  and  got 

blue  and  wanted  to  quit, 
But  Mollie'd  say:     "Keep  a-goin',  John, 

we'll  make  the  riffle  yit!" 
That  was  afore  little  Albert  come — when 

the  Lord  sent  him,  why  then 
'Course,  no  sich  thought  as  givia'   it  up 

ever  entered  my  head  agen. 

I've  jist  been  up  to  the  county  seat — the 
last  red  cent  is  paid : 


61 


WHEN  THE  RIFFLE  IS  MADE. 

The   farm   belongs  to  me  complete — the 

riffle  at  last  is  made, 
And,  oh,  what  a  feelin'  it  is  to  know  that 

the  roof  above  your  head 
Belongs  to  you  and  has  got  to  go  to  them 

you  love,  when  you're  dead! 
No  man  has  ever  been  quite  a  man  who 

couldn't  set  down  somewhere, 
And   say   to   himself:     "This   ground    is 

mine    and    I've   earned   it    fair   and 

square. ' ' 

Still,  I  ain't  as  happy  by  far,  to-day,  as 

I've  often  been  before; 
The  last  incumbrance  is  cleared  away — 

but  Mollie  ain't  here  no  more! 
I  promised  I'd  deed  it  over  to  her,  but 

that  can't  never  be, 
For  the  Lord  saw  fit  to  take  her  away  from 

little  Albert  and  me, 
And   I'd   give   up   all   if   she'd   leave  her 

grave,  with  her  smiles  and  her  patient 

ways, 
To  help  me  earn  and  to  help  me  save,  as 

in  the  old,  happy  days. 


62 


NATURE  AND  HER  MOODS. 


THE  BIRTH   OF  THE  ROSE. 

A  thistle  once  grew  near  a  lily, 

A  stately  lily  and  fair, 
And   the   wind   swayed   the    one    to   the 
other, 

And  the  spirit  of  love  was  there. 

And  unto  the  lily  and  thistle 
A  sweet  little  flower  was  born, 

And  the  lily  bent  down  to  caress  it, 

And  her  finger  was  pricked  by  a  thorn. 

The  blood  that  the  pale,  pure  lily, 
In  the  joy  of  her  motherhood  shed, 

Gave  the  sweet  little  stranger  its  color, 
Gave  the  rose  its  beautiful  red. 

The  rose  that  unto  the  lily 

And  unto  the  thistle  was  born, 

By  the  lily  was  given  its  beauty, 
By  the  thistle  was  given  its  thorn. 


DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

When  it  is  day,  and  traffic  roars  about  me 

in  the  street, 
I  need  no  guidance  to  elude  the  snares 

about  my  feet; 
When  ii  is  day  I  go  my  way  among  the 

haunts  of  men, 
Nor  care  who  holds  the  stars  in  space,  nor 

doubt  nor  question  then ; 
I  take  the  world  for  granted,  and  so  toil 

and  scheme  away, 
I  hear  the  passing  hour  struck  nor  pray 

the  hands  might  stay, 
When  it  is  day. 

When  it  is  night,  and  I,  alone,  walk  down 

the  quiet  lane 
I  hear  the  rustling  blades  of  grass  make 

God's  high  purpose  plain; 
When  it  is  night  the  gleaming  stars  that 

through  the  distance  roll 
Send  by  the  zephyrs  messages  to  whisper 

to  my  soul, 
I  hear  the  chimes  exult  because  of  Time's 

unceasing  flight 
And    feel    my     littleness,    with    all    the 

Universe  in  sight, 
When  it  is  night. 


66 


DA  T  A  ND  NIGHT. 

Life   is   day;    the   grave   is   night!      Oh, 
when  the  pall  is  spread 

Will    there    be    constellations    then    still 
gleaming  overhead? 

When,  after  all  the  dreams  and  schemes 
that  quicken  men  are  gone, 

When,  after   all   the   rush   and   roar   the 
silent  night  comes  on, 

Will  there  be  empty  darkness  and  a  pulse 
less  lump  of  clay, 

Or  will  the  Sun  have  just  sent  forth  the 
first  refulgent  ray 

That  wakes  the  day? 


67 


QUEER  OLD  NATURE. 

"Why  is  it,"  asked  a  wondering  child 

(Sweet,  simple  little  thing), 
"That  the  foolish  tree  puts  on  its  clothes 

When  the  sun  shines,  in  the  spring, 
And  then,  when  chilly  autumn  comes 

And  the  winds  of  winter  blow, 
Why  does  it  stand  out  there,  all  bare, 
In  the  frost  and  sleet  and  snow?" 

"Wise  Nature  has  arranged  it  thus," 

I  told  the  little  one, 
"The  rustling  leaves  can  only  live 

Beneath  a  smiling  sun; 
The  tree  that,  in  the  summer  time, 

Makes  shady  bowers  for  you 
Must  have  its  rest,  therefore  it  stands 
Asleep  the  winter  through." 

She  sat  in  silence  for  a  while 

And  gazed  far  into  space, 
And  lines  of  thought  and  trouble  came 

To  mar  her  childish  face ; 
And  so,  at  last,  she  turned  and  said : 
"I'm  sorry  for  the  tree, 
And  glad  that  Nature  wasn't  left 

To  fix  things  up  for  me!" 


68 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

The  rose  that  blooms  in  the  hot  house 

Is  rare  and  fair  to  see, 
But  still  the  fragrant  blossoms 

Of  the  dear  old  apple  tree 
That  stands  in  the  edge  of  the  orchard 

Somehow  appeal  to  me ! 

I  remember  how  she  loved  them 
And  wore  them  on  her  breast; 

Of  all  the  flowers  that  bloomed,  she  liked 
The  apple  blossoms  best, 

And  when  we  laid  her  away  a  bunch 
Of  them  in  her  hands  was  pressed ! 

The  rose  that  blows  in  the  hot-house 

Is  rare  and  fair  to  see, 
But  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms 

Of  the  dear,  old  apple  tree 
Somehow  remains  far  sweeter 

And  lovelier  to  me! 


69 


LOVE'S    CALENDAR 

Or  when  'tis  joyous  summer  time 
Or  when  the  wintry  blast  howls  by — 

Whate'er  the  land,  whate'er  the  clime, 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  me,  for  I 

Find  that  the  longest,  dreariest  day 

When  thou,  my  dear,  art  far  away ! 

Or  when  the  ground  is  white  with  snow 

And  swallows  to  the  South  have  flown, 
Or  when  the  rose  and  lily  blow, 

Or    fruit    trees    'neath    their   burdens 

groan, 

That  day  is  shortest,  sweetest,  dear, 
When   thou,    with   thy    glad   smiles,    art 
near! 


70 


FELLOWSHIP. 

I  sat  upon  the  hillside  yesterday 

And  saw  the  fellowship  that  moved  the 

herd; 
I  listened  to  a  bell  that,  far  away, 

Called  striving  men  to  hear  the  Savior's 

word, 
And  every  bud  there  bursting  whispered 

hope 
To  every  blade  upon  the  verdant  slope. 

I  journeyed  back  into  the  noisy  town, 
And    mingled    with    the    throng    that 

choked  the  way ; 
I   saw   men    push    their    weaker   fellows 

down, 
And  each  man's  watchword   there  was: 

"Will  it  pay?" 

The  bell  of  peace  that  I  had  heard  before 
Was  silent  in  the  turmoil  and  the  roar. 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  EVERGREENS. 

When  the  drifted  snow  has  hidden 

Roads  and  fences  from  the  sight, 
And  the  moon  floats  through  the  heavens 

Like  a  frozen  thing,  at  night, 
Flooding  all   the   frigid  stretches  with  a 

ghostly,  bluish  light, 
I  like  to  lie  and  conjure 

Up  old  half  forgotten  scenes, 
As  the  savage  wind  goes  howling 

Through  the  sighing  evergreens. 

There's  a  cottage  I  remember, 

With  an  orchard  in  the  rear ; 
There's  a  winding  pathway  leading 

To  a  spring  that  bubbles  near — 
Ah,  the  dipper  that  I  drank  from  bears 

the  rust  of  many  a  year! — 
There's  a  peach  tree  near  the  window 

Of  the  room  where  oft  I  lay 
In  the  long  ago,  and  listened 

To  the  wild  wind  howl  away. 

When  a  range  of  snowy  mountains 
Stretch  along  the  winding  lane ; 

When  the  gently  sloping  meadow 
Has  become  an  icy  plain, 

What  a  joy  it  is  to  snuggle  under  quilts 
and  counterpane, 


THE   WIND  IN  THE  EVERGREENS. 

And  hear  the  peach  tree  creaking, 

At  the  corner  where  it  leans, 
While  the  wind  goes  madly  shrieking 

Through  the  mourning  evergreens. 

When  the  ruminating  cattle 

Stand  in  bedding  to  their  knees; 
When  the  sheep  are  warmly  sheltered, 

When  the  horses  are  at  ease, 
And    the   kittens   in   the   kitchen   are   as 

happy  as  you  please — 
When  father's  work  is  ended, 

And  mother  sits  and  sews, 
There's  a  wondrous  mystic  music 

In  the  angry  wind  that  blows. 

Ah,  the  rambling  little  sheepf old's 

Weatherbeaten,  so  they  say ; 
The  horses  are  no  longer 

Munching  at  the  fragrant  hay — 
Beneath   the   old-style    kitchen   stove   no 

happy  kittens  play     *     *     * 
And,  out  behind  the  village  church, 

A  mossy  gravestone  leans 
Above  two  mounds  o'er  which  the  wind 

Sighs  through  the  evergreens. 


73 


BLOSSOMS  AND  FRUIT. 

The  bloom  of  the  tree  in  the  spring 
Is  a  fragrant  and  beautiful  thing, 

But,  after  all, 

Is  it  half  as  sweet  or  as  rare 
As  the  fruit  that  is  found  hanging  there 

In  the  fall? 

A  maiden's  a  beautiful  thing — 
A  sweet,  fresh  blossom  of  spring — 

Careless  and  wild! 
But  rarest  and  fairest  of  all 
Is  she  whose  happy  tears  fall 

On  her  first-born  child! 


74 


THE  CRICKET. 

I  hear   the  cricket   grinding  out  his  oft 

repeated  lay, 
And  know  the  time  for  leaves  to  fall  is  not 

so  far  away; 
It  is  a  plaintive  song  he  sings  and  always 

just  the  same, 
But  Nature  fixed  it  so  for  him,  and  he  is 

not  to  blame. 

Ah,  what  a  wondrous  set  of  lungs  it  is 

that  he  employs! 
There's  such  a  little  bit  of  him  and  such  a 

lot  of  noise, 
Wherefore  this  insect  brings  to  mind  some 

men  who  seem  to  take 
The  view  that  men  are  measured  by  the 

noise  that  they  can  make. 


75 


THE  PAINTED  LEAVES. 

CHILD. 

All  the  trees  are  gold  and  crimson  and 

they  look  like  pictures  now ; 
Did  the  one  who  spread  the  colors  do  it 

with  a  brush,  or  how? 
All  the  big  Outdoors  is  painted,  there  is 

color  everywhere, 
But  I  didn't  see  the  artist  when  he  came 

and  put  it  there. 

ANSWER. 

There's  an  ancient  faithful  painter,  and  a 

magic  brush  he  wields; 
'Tis  his  work  you  see  when  looking  at  the 

woods  across  the  fields ; 
Oh,  he  uses  splendid  colors,  and  he  shows 

unequaled  skill, 
But  no  child  has  ever  seen  him,  and  no 

maiden  ever  will. 

CHILD. 

Does  he  bring  his   pretty    colors  in  the 

night  when  I'm  in  bed? 
Tell  me  how  he  paints  the  treetops,  up  so 

high  above  his  head? 


76 


THE  PAINTED  LEA  VES. 

Does  he  climb  a  long,  long  ladder  that 

goes  half-way  to  the  sky — 
What  if  he  should  ever  tumble  when  he's 

working  up  so  high! 

ANSWER. 

Yes,  when  you  are  sweetly  dreaming  this 

old  artist  works  away, 
And  while  you,   awake,   are  playing,  he 

keeps  toiling  on  all  day; 
But  he  needs  no  lengthy  ladder,  so  put  off 

your  idle  fear, 
He  will  never  fall  or  fail  us  in  his  autumn 

painting,  dear. 

CHILD. 

All  the  leaves  are  gold  and  crimson ;  what 

an  artist  he  must  be ! 
And  how   swiftly    he    must   labor  to  get 

over  every  tree ! 
But  I  wish  he  came  in  springtime;  it's  a 

pity,  after  all, 
That  he  makes  the  leaves  so  pretty  just 

before  they  have  to  fall ! 


77 


OCTOBER  DAYS. 

The  squirrels  are  barking  in  the  trees 
And     the     leaves     unto    crimson    are 

turning, 
And  the  smell  of  wood  smoke  floats  along 

on  the  breeze 

From   the   brush   heaps    the  farmer  is 
burning. 

The  song-birds  are  singing  their  plaintive 

farewells 

To  the  brooks  that  are  silently  flowing, 
And  over  the  hills  comes  the  tinkling  of 

bells 
And  the  echoes  of  nutters  halloing. 

A  sigh  for  the  days  that  are  lost  in  the 

past, 

When  a  bare-footed  boy  did  his  dream 
ing, 

When  the  world  spread  around  him,  com 
placent  and  vast, 

And  his  heart  never  ached  after  profitless 
scheming. 


NATURE'S  FUNERAL  DAY. 

O,  Indian  summer  days, 
When  the  hills  are  blue  with  haze, 
And  the  sounds  of  tinkling  cow-bells  come 

afar  across  the  lea. 
What  a  sense  of  rest  there  lies 
In  the  azure  of  the  skies, 
And  what  peace  there  is  reflected  from 
the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

In  a  holy  calm  the  year 
Is  about  to  disappear, 
Merely  merging  with  the  past  in  solemn, 

sweet  solemnity! 
And  I,  too,  would  linger  till 
The  blue  haze  is  on  the  hill — 
Serene  in  Indian  summer,  when  the  sum 
mons  comes  to  me. 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  LEAVES. 

The  wind  is  fate, 

The  leaves  are  men — 
They  are  blown  along  for  a  little  space, 

And  then 
A  few  emerge  and  tumble  ahead, 

Over  and  over  and  over  again, 
In  a  maddening  race, 

And  here  and  there 

One  lodges  and  clings  in  a  lonesome  place, 
Until,  at  last,  but  a  single  leaf 

Whirls  onward  into  the  far  Somewhere. 

And   the   many    leaf-men    that   are   left 
behind 

Gather  in  clusters  here  and  there 
And  are  whirled  about  by  the  wilful  wind, 

And,  at  last,  when  the  great  white  quilt 

is  spread, 
And  all  is  over  and  done 

They  silently  lie  and  slowly  rot, 

Each  on  the  barren  little  spot 
Where  its  troubles  were  begun. 


80 


THE  DYING  YEAR. 

I  have  no  tear  for  the  dying  year, 

No  wreath  of  vain  regret 
To  place  with  those  upon  the  bier 

That  the  world  will  soon  forget — 
Let  hopeless  others  turn  and  gaze 

Back  on  the  fading  past, 
And  sigh  again  for  blissful  days 

That  were  too  sweet  to  last — 
I  have  no  tear  for  the  dying  year 

That  the  world  will  soon  forget. 

I  have  no  tear  for  the  dying  year, 

No  sigh  for  yesterday ; 
The  spreading  future  stretches  clear, 

And  Hope  still  points  the  way ! 
Let  him  for  whom  the  sun  has  set 

Bemoan  the  fading  past ; 
To  him  a  wreath  of  vain  regret 

For  days  too  sweet  to  last — 
I  have  no  tear  for  the  dying  year, 

Since  Hope  still  points  the  way. 


81 


MISCELLANEOUS  VERSES. 


THE  THINGS  THAT  ARE  DENIED. 

Why  must  I  ever  tell  him  "No" — 

My  pleading  baby  boy? 
The  things  he  craves  'twould  please  me  so 

To  witness  him  enjoy. 
Poor  child,  he  leaves  me  with  a  sigh 

And  doubting  in  his  mind, 
Because  he  does  not  know  that  I 

Am  "cruel  to  be  kind." 

I  long  for  things  I  cannot  get ; 

In  vain  I  toil  away ; 
And  oft  I  doubt  and  grieve  and  fret 

As  he  has  done  to-day. 
Why  am  I  thus  denied?     Why  do 

I  seek  and  fail  to  find? 
Mayhap  my  loving  Father,  too, 

Is  "cruel  to  be  kind." 


THE  OLD  GRIND. 

Sometimes  I  look  upon  the  rich 

With  envy  in  my  breast, 
And  think  how  pleasant  it  would  be 

To  just  "saw  off"  and  rest — 
To  smoke  cigars  and  loaf  around, 

While  others  worked  away — 
With  plenty  "salted  down,"  of  course, 

For  the  future  rainy  day. 

Oh  what  a  joy  'twould  be  to  tell 

The  man  who  bosses  me 
That  I  was  tired  of  his  style — 

To  brace  up  and  be  free ! 
And,  in  the  lazy  mornings,  how 

I'd  like  to  lie  abed, 
And  what  a  pleasure  to  get  out 

And  be  a  thoroughbred ! 

Such   thoughts    I    have    sometimes,    but 
when 

I'm  ill  and  have  to  stay 
Indoors  a  day  or  two,  ah,  then 

My  envy  fades  away ! 
I  think  of  all  the  boys  at  work, 

And  know  no  peace  of  mind, 
Until  they  let  me  out  and  I 

Resume  the  good  old  grind ! 


86 


A  HAPPY  MAN. 

I  have  no  lofty  station, 

Nor  riches  nor  renown — 
An  atom  in  creation, 

I  travel  up  and  down — 
I  come  and  go  unheeded, 

I  toil  as  millions  do, 
But  O,  I  still  am  needed, 

And  gladness  claims  me,  too! 
The  sky  is  blue  above  me, 

And  Hope  points  out  the  way — 
You  tell  me  that  you  love  me, 

And  you  are  three  to-day. 

I  envy  not  my  neighbor 

Whose  name  is  known  to  men; 
He  may  not  need  to  labor 

With  scythe  or  pick  or  pen, 
But  yet,  despite  his  riches, 

He  still  is  poor,  for  he 
Has  not  the  sweet  care  which  is 

Confided  unto  me ! 
Blue,  blue  the  sky  above  me 

While  Hope  points  out  the  way 
And  you  are  here  to  love  me, 

You  who  are  three  to-day ! 


THE  WAYS. 

Do  you  traverse  a  way 

That  is  likely  to  end 
At  Something,  some  day, 

My  friend? 

Or,  do  you  belong 

To  the  great  plodding  throng 

On  the  broad,  level  way 
That  leads  to  Nowhere — 

That  will  end,  some  day, 
In  Nothing,  out  there? 

There  are  paths  leading  out 

From  this  broad,  level  way — 
You  have  seen  them,  no  doubt, 

For  you  pass  them  each  day — 
That  lead  to  Somewhere, 

That  glorious  place, 
So  distant,  so  fair — 

Like  a  mirage  in  space ! 

But  these  pathways,  you  say, 
Are  so  stony  and  steep ! 

And  the  broad,  level  way 
Is  so  easy  to  keep ! 

You  have  heard  of  Somewhere, 

And  you'd  like  to  go  there 
If  a  way  could  be  found 


88 


THE   WATS. 

That  was  easy,  and  wound 

In  a  smooth,  broad  course  that  led  on 

around 

And  up  the  height, 

Where  the  city  stands,  a  glorious  sight, 
Peopled  by  only  immortals,  and  where 
There  is  honor  for  each  that,  at  last,  gets 
there ! 

Ah,  there  is  no  way  that  is  level  and  broad 
Leading  up  to  this  glorious  place,  Some 
where, 

And  no  man  yet  who  has  only  trod 
A  way  that  is  easy  and  smooth  and  broad 
Has  ever  succeeded  in  getting  there ! 


89 


A  TRANSFORMATION. 

Ere  you  went  to  live  upon  "The  Avenue" 
You    were   sweet   and    fair   and   jovial 

with  me; 
But  a  sudden  change  has  taken  place  in 

you, 
Since    you've   gone   to    live   upon    "The 

Avenue," 

And  my  maid,  so  fair  and  free, 
Where,  oh  haughty  one,  is  she, 
Since   you've    gone   to   live    upon   "The 
Avenue?" 

Since    you've   gone    to   live   upon    "The 

Avenue" 
You  are  distant,  you  are  stiff,  and  you 

are  cold ; 
You  have  donned  the  ugly  false  and  put 

off  the  lovely  true, 
Since    you've    gone   to   live   upon    "The 

Avenue," 

And  my  jolly  maid  of  old 
Kneels  before  a  calf  of  gold, 
Since   you've    gone    to    live   upon    "The 
Avenue." 


90 


THE  MAN  WHO  FAILED. 

'With  you,"  he  cried,  "to  cheer  me  on 

I'll  brush  all  obstacles  away, 
And  scale  the  heights  whereon  is  fame, 
And  all  the  world  shall  praise  thy  name 
And  envy  you,  some  day." 

Ah,  that  was  many  a  year  ago! 

He  hasn't  scaled  the  height. 
But  if — oh  heaven ! — if  he  were 
Not  sorely  handicapped  by  her, 

He  often  thinks  he  might. 


THE  MEETING 

One  day,  in  Paradise, 

Two  angels,  beaming,  strolled 
Along  the  amber  walk  that  lies 

Beside  the  street  of  gold. 

At  last  they  met  and  gazed 

Into  each  other's  eyes, 
Then  dropped  their  harps,  amazed, 

And  stood  in  mute  surprise. 

And  other  angels  came, 

And,  as  they  lingered  near, 
Heard  both  at  once  exclaim ; 
"Say,  how  did  you  get  here?" 


92 


THE  ANSWER. 

The  great  man  knelt  in  prayer: 
"O,  Lord  of  Hosts,"  he  said, 
"Permit  thy  blessing  now  to  rest 

Upon  thy  servant's  head! — 
Men  gnash  their  teeth  and  scowl  at  me, 
O,  give  them  eyes,  that  they  may  see! 

"My  wordly  store  is  great,  O,  Lord; 

My  power  increases  day  by  day ; 
Here  I  bestow,  as  Thou  dost  know, 

If  there  I  take  away — 
Yet  men  cry  out,  reviling  me, 
Lord,  give  them  eyes,  that  they  may  see! 

"Upon  thy  footstool,  Lord,  behold 

A  hundred  spires  rise ! 
Through  them  thy  servant  points  the  way 

To  glories  in  the  skies — 
Still,  men  stand  here  reviling  me, 
O,  give  them  eyes,  that  they  may  see!" 

Unto  the  great  man  kneeling  there 

A  Thunderous  Voice  replied: 
"Thy  worldly  store  indeed  is  great, 
Thy  power  vast  and  wide — 

But  who,  thou  worm,  has  given  to  thee 

Authority  to  act  for  Me? 


93 


THE  ANSWER.  . 

'I  see  the  traces  of  thy  hand! 

A  starving  child  is  there, 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  spire 

That  thou  hast  reared  in  air ! — 
Speak  out,  thou  worm !    Who  vested  thee 
With  power  to  rearrange  for  Me? 

'Here  thou  hast  taken  ten  away, 
There  thou  hast  given  one — 
Who  fixed  the  toll  to  be  retained 

For  this  that  thou  hast  done? 
Speak  out !    Speak  out !  Who  vested  thee 
With  rights  to  give  and  take  for  Me?" 


94 


INNOCENCE. 

She  took  a  fragile  flower  from  a  bunch 
against  her  breast — 

Sweet  little  maiden  that  she  was! 
Its  petals  for  a  moment  at  her  honeyed 
lips  were  pressed — 

Dainty  little  maiden  that  she  was! 
Then  she  bade  me  sweet  "Good  day," 
Threw  the  scented  bud  away — 
And    I  watched  it  where  it  lay — 

Pretty  little  maiden  that  she  was ! 

I  knelt  beside  the  flower  where  it  fell  upon 
the  floor — 

Tender  little  maiden  that  she  was ! 
I  fondly  pressed  it  to  my  lips,  as  she  had 
done  before — 

Darling  little  maiden  that  she  was! 
And  then,  turning  suddenly, 
At  the  corner  I  could  see 
Her  slyly  watching  me — 

Cunning  little  maiden  that  she  was! 


95 


TEARS  AND  SMILES. 

The  skies  cannot  always  be  clear, 

My  dear; 
The  merriest  eye  must  still  have  its  tear, 

My  dear; 
The  clouds  that  are  frowning  above  us 

to-day 

Will  presently  break  and  go  floating  away, 
And  the  skies  will  be  blue  that  are  sullen 
and  gray, 

My  dear! 

We  can't  have  just  happiness  here, 

My  dear; 

You  would  never  be  glad  if  you  ne'er  shed 
a  tear, 

My  dear; 
The   sorrow    that    lurks   in   your   bosom 

to-day, 
Like  the  clouds,  when  you've  wept,  will 

go  floating  away, 

And  the  skies  will  be  blue  that  are  sullen 
and  gray, 

My  dear ! 

If  it's  going  to  rain,  it  will  rain, 

My  dear; 
No  matter  how  bitterly  we  may  complain, 

My  dear; 

96 


TEARS  AND  SMILES. 

There  are  sorrows  that  every  good  woman 

must  bear; 
There  are  griefs  in  which  every  good  man 

has  a  share ; 

It  is  only  the  fool  who  has  never  a  care, 
My  dear! 

The  skies  cannot  always  be  clear, 

My  dear; 

Sweets  wouldn't  be  sweet  were  no  bitter 
ness  here, 

My  dear; 
There  could  never  be  joy  if  there  never 

was  sorrow, 
The   sobs   of    to-day   are    the    smiles   of 

to-morrow, 

And    there's    gladness   as   well    as    vain 
trouble  to  borrow, 
My  dear! 


THE  ONE  BELOW. 

I  gazed  on  piles  of  marble — 

Saw  servants  come  and  go, 
And  my  breast  was  filled  with  envy, 

And  my  soul  was  steeped  in  woe. 
*     *     * 

It  was  a  tired  cripple  who  stopped  me  at 

the  gate, 
And  Hope,  I  saw,  was  his,  although  his 

burden  was  so  great ; 
And,  as   I   bought  his  pencils,  I  saw  his 

thankful  smile, 
And  envy  turned  to  pity,  and  I  bade  him 

stay  awhile. 

'And   do    you,    brother,    never,"  I  said, 

"bewail  your  lot? 
And  do  you  never  envy  men  who  have 

what  you  have  not? 
Is  life  still  worth  the  effort,  and  can  you, 

brother,  too, 

Still  thank  your  God  for  favors  that  he 
has  bestowed  on  you?" 

He     smiled,     and     then    he    answered: 

"There  stands  in  yonder  square 
A  blind  man  who  is  begging  of  the  people 
passing  there: 


THE  ONE   BELOW. 

He  cannot  see  their  faces ;  but  there,  day 

after  day, 
He,  pleading,   stands,  with  outstretched 

hands,  to  those  that  pass  his  way. 

"I   see   the   blue   of   Heaven;    I   see   the 

glorious  sun ; 
I  see  the  world,  and  marvel  at  the  things 

that  God  has  done; 
And  when  the  day  is  ended  I  leave  the 

market  place, 
And  hold  my  baby  in  my  arms  and  look 

upon  her  face ! 

"Sometimes  I  feel  the  burden  and  bend 

beneath  its  weight; 

Sometimes  I  cry  aloud  against  the  cruel 
ties  of  Fate — 
But  there  he  stands,    with  outstretched 

hands,  before  his  fellow-men ; 
I  gaze  into  his  sightless  eyes,  and  I  am 
glad  again!" 

*     *     * 
He  hobbled  on.     I  watched  him 

With  painful  steps  depart; 

He  took  my  pennies  with  him, 

And  left  a  buoyant  heart. 


99 


THE  SWEET  OLD  WAY. 

We  live,  alas,  in  an  age  of  greed, 

Greed  of  power  and  greed  of  gain — 
Gold  begins  and  ends  our  creed, 

We    weigh    the   purse   instead   of    the 

brain ! 
Chivalry's  buried,  never  again 

To  be  resurrected,  so  they  say — 
But,  in  spite  of  the  struggle  for  riches,  men 

Still  fall  in  love  in  the  sweet  old  way. 

The  days  when  honor  was  all  are  dead ; 

We  have  little  time  for  rhyme  or  art; 
The  world  of  to-day  obeys  the  head, 

We  have  turned  in  rebellion  against  the 

heart ; 

But  through  the  rush  and  the  strife  and 
the  roar, 

Still  come  the  sounds  of  gentle  sighs, 
And  men  are  thrilled  as  they  were  of  yore 

By  the  looks  of  love  in  women's  eyes! 

Fame  is  no  longer  for  him  alone 

That  wins  in  the  field  or  charms  with 

his  pen; 
By  the  lengths  of  their  bank  accounts  are 

known 
The  grades  of  our  modern  gentlemen ; 


THE  SWEET  OLD  WAT. 

Few  of  us  even  have  time  to  pray 

To   the    God    that    is    still    enthroned 

above — 
But  women  still  charm  in  the  sweet,  old 

way, 
And  money-mad  men  still  fall  in  love. 


THE  MAN    WHO  IS  NOT  NEEDED. 

I'm  sixty  years  of  age  to-day. 

And  I  have  worked  and  slaved, 
And  someone  else  shall  presently 
Get  all  that  I  have  saved! 
But  it  is  not 
The  simple  thought 
Of  going  that  I  deplore; 
"'Tisthis:     When  I 

In  the  cold  earth  lie, 
They'll  think  of  me  no  more! 

I've  labored  on  from  day  to  day 

With  one  hope  in  my  mind, 
'Twas  that  when  I  was  laid  away 
I'd  leave  a  void  behind — 
Something,  you  know, 
To  always  show 
That  I  had  lived  and  wrought; 
But  now,  at  last, 
That  dream  is  past — 
I've  got  to  share  the  common  lot. 

I've  thrown  a  fever  off  to-day 

And  risen  from  my  bed; 
For  months  I've  been  but  helpless  clay, 
With  wild  thoughts  in  my  head. 
I'd  fondly  thought 
The  mill  would  not 


THE  MAN  WHO  IS  NOT  NEEDED. 

Run  if  I  were  not  there  to  see — 

But  it  kept  right  on 

While  I  was  gone, 
And  that's  the  thing  that  saddens  me. 


103 


THE  BANISHED  VISION. 

I  saw  a  splendid  castle  whose  towers  cleft 

the  air, 
And  troops  of  hurrying  servants  spoke  in 

frightened  whispers  there; 
Beside  a  bed  all  richly  spread  the  kneeling 

master  wept, 
And,  pressed  against  its  mother's  breast, 

a  fragile  infant  slept. 

Outside  the  castle  gates  I  saw  a  ghostly 

rider  sit 
Upon  a  pale,  impatient  steed  that  madly 

champed  its  bit, 
And,  as  I  looked,  the  gates  were  swung  to 

let  the  rider  through. 
And   then  a   baby's   laughter   swept   the 

castle  from  my  view. 

I  turned    and   kissed   a   rosy   cheek   and 

stroked  a  curly  head, 
And    pitied    him    who   knelt   beside    that 

richly-covered  bed; 
I   heard   a    happy    mother's    song,    and, 

hearing,  was  aware 
That   gladness    may    be    far   away    from 

towers  that  cleave  the  air. 


104 


THE  INFIDEL. 

O  man  of  eloquent  speech, 

O  man  of  massive  brain. 
What  is  this  thing  you  preach, 

And  what  do  your  followers  gain? 
You  have  seen  the  stars  in  the  sky, 

You  have  watched  the  billows  roll, 
You  have  heard  the  infant  cry, 
You  have  heard  the  mother  sigh, 
And  still  you  have  flowery  words  to  deny 

The  existence  of  the  soul ! 

You  have  searched  the  Bible  through, 

O  man  of  wonderful  brain, 
And  you  hold  its  fallacies  up  to  view, 

But  what  do  your  followers  gain? 
You  have  garnered  a  wealth  of  lore, 

And  you  splendidly  deal  it  out, 
From  your  lips  the  flowery  sentences  pour, 
And  men  who  had  simple  faith  before 

Depart  with  sickening  doubt. 

But  I  have  knelt  at  a  knee, 

O  man  of  wonderful  scope, 
And  one  with  a  soul  has  given  to  me 

The  trust  that  fosters  hope ! 
And  the  simple  faith  she  had  to  give 

Will  live  a  thousand  years  for  each 


105 


THE  INFIDEL. 

Brief  year,  O  man,  that  you  may  live, 

To  charm  with  your  flowery  speech. 
O,  man  of  words  that  burn, 

O  man  of  words  that  sway, 
What  do  you  offer  in  return 

For  the  faith  you  would  take  away? 
The  trust  she  gave  was  free, 

O  man  of  wonderful  brain — 
You  would  destroy  for  pelf,  but  she 

Taught  not  for  selfish  gain ! 
You  have  garnered  a  wealth  of  lore, 

She  was  moved  by  a  Mind  above; 
You  pile  up  a  wordly  store — 

She  gave  from  the  fountain  of  love ! 

You  have  searched  the  Good  Book  through, 

O  man  of  massive  brain, 
You  hold  its  fallacies  up  to  view — 

You  garner  gold  and  you  scatter  pain ! 
But  I  have  knelt  at  a  knee, 

And  I  have  listened  to  you, 
And  her  prayers  come  back,  and  I  know 
that  she 

Who  loved  me  and  taught  me  knew — 
That  the  word  she  gave  to  me 

Is  the  wonderful  word  that  is  true. 


106 


HER  TEARS. 

Let  others  bask  in  her  smiles! 

I  know 
That  her  yearning  heart  is  mine, 

Although 

She  pretends  to  be  gay 
With  another,  to-day — 
Last  night  I  caused  her  tears  to  flow ! 

She  is  making  a  fool  of  him ! 

I  know 
'Tis  not  his  love  sets  her  cheeks 

Aglow ! 

Let  him  bask  in  her  smiles, 
And  be  fooled  by  her  wiles — 
Last  night  I  caused  her  tears  to  flow ! 

Oh,  dearer  than  all  her  smiles 

May  be 
Is  the  glorious  charm  of  knowing 

That  she 

Who  pretends  to  be  gay 
With  another,  to-day, 
Wept,  last  night,  when  she  quarreled  with 
me! 


107 


WORDS  IN  THE  SAND. 

They  strolled  together  on  the  shore 

He  held  her  little  hand, 
And  where  the  waves  had  dashed  before 

They  wrote  words  in  the  sand. 

They  wrote  the  words  that  lovers  say, 
They  joined  their  names  together, 

And  merry-hearted  took  away 
No  thoughts  of  stormy  weather. 

The  waves  of  Time  have  broken  o'er 

Her  heart  and  his  since  then, 
As  the  waves  have  washed  the  sandy  shore 

And  left  it  bare  again. 

And  the  words  they  fashioned  in  the  sand 

Are  gone  and  gone  forever, 
For  the  heart  is  but  a  shifting  strand, 

Wave-washed — and  constant  never. 


108 


HIS  NEW  SUIT. 

I  remember  well  the  way 
She  looked  up  at  me  that  day 
When  I  first  put  on  the  gray, 

And  said  good-bye,  back  there  in  '63. 
She  and  I  were  sweethearts  then, 
And  I  hear  her  voice  again, 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 
Saying  in  her  gentle  way : 
'Ah,  how  brave  you  look  in  gray, 
And  how  tall  and  handsome,  too, 
Gray's  the  color,  dear,  for  you!" 

There's  a  ragged  suit  of  gray 
She  has  long  had  laid  away — 

There  are  memories  that  cling  around 

it,  too; 

But  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  at  present  I  have  on 

A  suit  of  Uncle  Sam's  beloved  blue. 

When  she  saw  me  yesterday 

She  wiped  a  tear  away 

For  the  memory  of  the  gray — 

That  dear,  old,  ragged  suit  of  '63, 
And  she  sweetly  spoke  again — 
Spoke  more  fervently  than  then 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 


109 


H7S  NEW  SUIT. 


Saying,  in  her  gentle  way : 
'Ah,  how  brave  you  looked  in  gray! 
But  you're  braver  still  in  blue, 
Blue's  the  color,  dear,  for  you!" 


VISIONS  OF  THE  PAST. 

THE    WEARY    ONE. 

The  good  old  days — the  good  old  days — 

ah!  life  was  sweeter  then 
Than  it  is  since  I  must  share  the  cares 

that  weigh  on  toiling  men. 
The  fruit  that  grew  on  the  bending  trees 

when  I  was  young  and  free 
Seemed  sweeter  far  and  juicier  than  fruit 

now  seems  to  me. 
Oh,  for  another  happy  day  back  there  in 

the  long  ago, 
Perched  in  the  dear  old   cherry   tree,  and 

swinging  to  and  fro ! 
And  oh  for  the  big  red  cherries  that  I  ate 

with  a  relish  then, 
For   the   cherries   are   all   wormy  since  I 

share  the  cares  of  men ! 

THE    SAGE. 

Ah!  the  good  old  days  would  cease  to 
charm  if,  with  your  present  tastes, 

You  were  back  again  on  the  lonesome 
farm,  with  its  briers  and  stony  wastes. 

And  you  didn't  enjoy  the  good  old  days 
when  you  had  them  to  enjoy, 


in 


VISIONS  OF  THE  PAST. 

And  you  wouldn't  now  if  you  might  again 

be  a  freckle-featured  boy ! 
You  think  that  the  fruit  was  juicier  then 

and  sweeter  than  'tis  to-day; 
But  fruit  still  grows  upon  the  trees  in  the 

same  old-fashioned  way. 
And  you  found  no  worms  in  your  cherries 

then,  but  'tis  certain  that  they  were 

there ; 
You  weren't  looking  for  worms  when  you 

were  a  boy,  and  didn't  care! 


WHERE    SHE  IS. 

I  do  not  mind  the  rabble  in  the  street, 
The  never-ceasing  conflict  and  the  whir ; 

Around  me  clatter  many  tired  feet, 
But  dreamily  I  listen  unto  her. 

She  hums  a  little  song  and  I  can  hear 
Cool  brooklets  flowing  gently  to  the  sea ; 

She  smiles,  and  blossom-laden  trees  appear 
In  fancy's  dreamy  vistas  unto  me. 

What  matter,  if  the  town  be  hot  and  dry? 

Where    she    is,    fragrant    flowers   ever 

blow; 
The  noise  and  conflict  still  go  on,  but  I 

Forget  and  dream  of  moments  long  ago, 
And  gleaming  sails,  that  drifted  slowly  by. 


GOING  WITH  THE  CROWD. 

Like  a  ship  without  a  rudder 

That  goes  drifting  here  and  there, 
Idly  tossing,  weather  beaten, 

Never  getting  anywhere — 
Veering  with  the  daily  changes  of  the  tide, 
On  the  wave  or  in  the  trough,  upon  her 

side — 
Is  the  man  who  merely  shuffles 

With  the  crowd  along  the  way, 
Bringing  up  to-morrow  evening 

Where  he  started  yesterday. 

Better  far  a  wooden  dory 

With  a  purpose  that  is  plain 
Than  a  stately  liner  tossing 

Rudderless  upon  the  main ! 
Better  far  to  toil  obscurely  for  a  time 
On  some   rocky   path   no   other   dares  to 

climb 
Than  carelessly  to  shuffle 

With  the  crowd  along  the  way, 
Bringing  up  to-morrow  evening 

Where  you  started  yesterday. 

I  greet  the  man  who  bravely 

Takes  a  course  and  fares  along — 

Turns  his  steps  into  some  rugged 
Path  untrodden  by  the  throng ; 


114 


GOING   WITH  THE  CROWD. 

Fame  is  deftly  interlacing  laurels  now 
To  be  wreathed  upon    the  lonely  toiler's 


Leaves  that  never  come  through  drifting 
With  the  crowd  along  the  way, 

Bringing  up  to-morrow  evening 
Where  you  started  yesterday  ! 


THE  COURSE  OF  LOVE. 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  silvery  moon 

Beamed  down  upon  the  scene 
Where  Harold  planned  to  carry  off 

The  lovely  Geraldine. 
He  was  a  brave  and  handsome  lad, 

She  was  as  sweet  as  fair, 
But,  oh,  her  heavy-fisted  dad 

Opposed  the  loving  pair. 

He  came  out  from  behind  a  tree — 

He  gave  the  cuckoo's  call, 
And  waited  for  the  lovely  maid 

Who  held  his  heart  in  thrall. 
Eftsoons  she  softly  raised  the  sash, 

And  whispered:     "I  am  here"; 
He  ceased  to  gnaw  his  young  mustache, 

And  cried:     "Hist!    Hist!  my  dear!" 

She  "histed"  once;  she  "histed"  twice, 

Her  father  snored  away ; 
The  lover  dragged  his  ladder  up, 

And  brought  it  into  play; 
He  stood  upon  the  lowest  round, 

While  she  leaned  out  above — 
The  moon  was  happy  to  have  found 
This  blissful  scene  of  love. 

"And  are  you  sure,"  the  maiden  cried, 
"That  you  will  ever  be 


116 


THE  COURSE  OF  LOVE. 

As  brave  and  true  as  you  are  now, 

And  always  cherish  me?" 
'As  long,"  the  lover  made  reply, 
"As  yonder  moon  doth  shine 
And  take  her  course  across  the  sky, 
I'll  love  you,  my  divine!" 

He  took  another  upward  step, 
Her  heart  began  to  quake; 
'Oh,  what,"  she  thought,  "would  happen 

now 

If  father  should  awake?" 
Up,  up,  the  happy  lover  crept 

Till  she  could  feel  his  breath, 
And  still  the  cruel  father  slept, 
And  all  was  still  as  death. 

Another  step,  another  round, 

And  then  their  lips  would  meet — 
Alas!  the  ladder  broke,  and  he 

Fell  twenty-seven  feet! 
The  clatter  would  have  raised  the  dead, 

It  raised  her  sleeping  sire, 
Who  quickly  bounded  out  of  bed, 

Nor  sought  to  curb  his  ire. 

They  found  the  lover  lying  low, 

His  clothes  were  badly  torn; 
He'd  fallen  in  a  bramble-bush, 

And  met  with  many  a  thorn. 
At  last  they  brought  him  round  again, 

Her  father  bade  him  go, 
He  didn't  stop  to  argue  then, 

And  it  was  better  so! 


117 


THE  COURSE  OF  LOVE. 

Ah,  that  was  many  years  ago, 

They're  married,  he  and  she, 
But  each  unto  another,  and 

As  happy  as  can  be. 
She  has  a  son  that  she's  afraid 

May  throw  himself  away — 
And  he's  the  father  of  a  maid 

He  watches  well,  to-day! 


118 


IF. 


When  all  is  over, 

And  the  dear  one  lies 
Under  the  cover 
Of  blossoms  and  clover — 

When  the  kind,  weary  eyes 
Are  sightless  forever — 
How  thick  and  how   vast   do   the   ugly 

"if's"  rise! 

"If  I  had  been  kinder — if  I  had  obeyed, 
The   hand   of    the   reaper,  mayhap,  had 

been  stayed ! 

O,  if  I  had  thought,  O,  if  I  had  cared, 
What  heart-breaking  sorrows  might  she 
have  been  spared!" 

O,  happy  the  lover, 

Thrice  happy  the  son, 
If,  when  all  is  over 

And  the  dear,  patient  one 
Lies  under  the  cover 

Of  blossoms  and  clover, 
No   "ifs"    come    trooping   to   taunt   and 

torment! 
O  happy  his  lot 
Who  can  say:     "I  would  not 
Undo  or  change  aught — " 
Who  requited  her  love  ere  she  went! 


119 


IF. 

When  all  is  over 

And  the  dear  one  lies 
Under  the  cover 
Of  blossoms  and  clover. 

When  the  kind,  weary  eyes 
Are  sightless  forever, 
O  would  that  there  never 

Were  "ifs"  to  arise! 


MISS  "I-DON'T-CARE." 

She  is  sweet,  petite,  and  witty, 

But,  alas,  she's  heartless,  too! 
If  you  know  her,  oh,  I  pity — 

From  my  soul  I  pity  you ! 
Half  a  hundred  hearts  are  breaking 

For  this  maid,  so  sweet,  so  fair — 
She  with  merriment  is  shaking, 

And  exclaiming,  "I  don't  care!" 

'Maiden,"  cried  I  once,  "I  love  you; 

Let  me  claim  your  heart  as  mine; 
Every  star  that  is  above  you 

But  for  you  would  cease  to  shine!" 
'Ah,  you  foolish,  foolish  fellow, 

Why  bore  me  with  this  affair?" 
She  replied,  in  accents  mellow, 
"Let  the  stars  fall,  I  don't  care!" 

'But  my  heart  is  fiercely  burning! 

I  must  win  your  love!"   I  cried; 
Smiling  cruelly,  and  turning 

Half  away,  the  maid  replied: 
'Ah,  your  breast  is  all  on  fire! 

That  is  awful,  I  declare ! 
Still,  if  you  will  build  a  pyre 

In  your  bosom  I  don't  care!" 

Fifty  times  I've  knelt  before  her 
And  in  many  ways  I've  sought 


MISS  "7  DON'T-CARE." 

To  invoke  a  love  spell  o'er  her, 
But  it  all  has  come  to  naught ! 

Yesterday  I  swore  I'd  die  if 

She  my  fortune  would  not  share — 

'Die  then,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh,  "if 

That  will  help  you — I  don't  care!" 


HAPPINESS. 

'I  would  be  happy,"  Greed's  slave   cries, 

"Could  I  but  learn  some  way 
To  win  the  great,  elusive  prize 
That  ever  flees  from  me — 
I  would  be  happy  could  I  be 
A  millionaire  to-day." 

'I  would  be  happy,"  Youth  cries  out 

"If  Fate  would  grant  me  fame! 
O,  that  I  might  hear  people  shout 
My  praises  as  I  passed  along — 
O,  that  in  story  and  in  song 
I  might  embalm  my  name!" 

Behold  where  happiness  is  found : 

Beneath  yon  spreading  tree 
A  fool,  half  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
Holds  in  his  teeth  a  bit  of  clay 
And     blows    white     rings    of     smoke 

away — 
From  sad  ambition  free. 


123 


THE  MAN  OF  FAITH. 

He  is  the  bravest  man 

Who  has  the  faith  to  feel 
That  God's  above  to  guide 

Him  on  through  woe  or  weal — 
To  him  who  has  no  doubt 

How  can  there  come  a  fear? 
He  plunges  in  or  rushes  out, 

Believing  God  is  near, 
And,  though  by  dangers  hedged  about 

Pursueth  his  career, 
For  where  there  lurketh  doubt, 

There,  only,  can  be  fear. 

He  is  the  strongest  man 

Who  has  the  faith  sublime 
To  feel  that  he  is  kept 

In  God's  view  all  the  time; 
He  calmly  goes  his  way, 

When  once  that  way  is  plain, 
And  keeps  ascending  day  by  day 

The  height  he  is  to  gain ; 
The  part  that  God  gave  him  to  play 

He  plays  with  might  and  main, 
And  never  wanders  from  the  way, 

Since  God  has  made  it  plain. 

O,  for  the  faith  that  lifts 
Men  over  earth's  affairs — 


124 


THE  MAN  OF  FAITH. 

The  faith  that  strengthens  hearts 

And  blots  out  human  cares! 
To  him  who  has  no  doubt 

How  can  there  come  a  fear? 
He  plunges  in  or  rushes  out, 

Believing  God  is  near. 
And,  though  by  dangers  hedged  about, 

Pursueth  his  career, 
For  where  there  lurketh  doubt, 

There,  only,  can  be  fear. 


125 


LIVING  IT  OVER. 

'If  I  had  my  life  to  live  over, 

And  could  know  what  I  know  to-day; 
If  I  could  go  back 
O'er  the  uneven  track, 
I  would  travel  a  different  way. 
The  prospect  beyond  me  is  gloomy, 
My  pathway  is  rocky  and  steep ; 
I  must  toil,  though  I  know 
That  the  crops  which  I  sow 
Are  only  for  others  to  reap! 
Alas  for  the  years  that  I've  squandered, 

And  the  chances  I've  frittered  away! 
Would  that  I  might  live  it  all  over, 
Knowing  life  as  I  know  it  to-day!" 

'And  if  it  were  all  to  live  over, 

If  you  knew  all  you  know  to-day, 
If  you  could  go  back 
O'er  the  uneven  track, 
You  would  still  sing  your  pitiful  lay, 
For  the  man  who  sits  idle,  regretting 
The  chances  that  lie  in  the  past 
Is  never  the  one 
Whose  work  is  well  done, 
However  his  fortunes  are  cast! 
There's   a   use   for   the   years   that   are 
squandered 


126 


LIVING  IT  OVER. 

And  the  chances  men  fritter  away ; 
The  man  who  succeeds  is  the  man  who 

can  build 
On  the  failures  of  yesterday." 


127 


THE  QUARREL. 

'There  are  quite  as  good  fish 

In  the  sea 
As  anyone  ever  has  caught," 

said  he. 

'But  few  of  the  fish- 
In  the  sea 

Will  bite  at  such  bait  as  you've  got," 
Said  she. 

To-day  he  is  gray  and  his  line's  put  away, 
But  he  often  looks  back  with  regret; 

She's  still  "in  the  sea,"  and  how  happy 

she'd  be 
If  he  were  a  fisherman  yet ! 


128 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIDN'T  RISE. 

He  worked  away 
From  day  to  day 

Year  in,  year  out,  he  came  and  went; 
And  others  passed  him  in  the  race 
And  lines  began  to  mark  his  face, 
And  in  his  breast  was  discontent. 

"I  wonder  why," 

He  moaned,  "that  I 
Am  stranded  here,  as  on  a  rock? 

While  others  rise  I'm  doomed  to  stay!" 
And,  ever  as  he  worked  away, 
He  kept  one  eye  upon  the  clock. 


129 


LOVE'S  MIRROR. 
I. 

The  sky  was  draped  with  somber  clouds, 

A  chill  was  in  the  air; 
My  love  was  cold  and  gloominess 

Extended  everywhere. 

I  mingled  with  the  busy  throng, 

And  scanned  the  faces  there ; 
Each  seemed  a  living  mirror  of 

Bereavement  or  despair. 

II. 

My  loved  one  smiled  upon  me  and 

The  world  was  bright  again ; 
E'en  though  the  wind  blew  from  the  north 

It  did  not  chill  me  then. 

Again  I  mingled  with  the  throng, 

And  saw  but  gladness  when 
I  peered  into  the  faces  of 

Those  erst  unhappy  men. 


130 


CONTENTMENT. 

The  man  who  grinds  me  down  and  thrives 

upon  my  daily  toil 
Owns  acres  by  the  thousand,  while  I've 

not  a  foot  of  soil ; 
And   in   his   vaults   'tis  said  that  he  has 

millions  stored  away, 
While  I  must  labor  for  the  things  I  need 

from  day  to  day, 
Yet  I  would  not  change  places  with  this 

multi-millionaire, 
For   I   have   peace   of   mind,  while  he  is 

weighted  down  with  care ! 

I  have  a  wife  and  little  ones,  who  fill  my 

foolish  heart, 
While  he,  in  crusty  loneliness,  is  doomed 

to  live  apart! 
He  never  felt  two  little  arms  around  his 

wrinkled  neck; 
He   is   not   loved,    although    his    gold   is 

measured  by  the  peck; 
He  cannot  go  to  bed  at  night  and  slumber 

as  I  can — 
No,  no !     I  would  not,  if  I  could,  change 

places  with  this  man ! 

And  when  the  labor  of  the   day   is   done 
and  I  repair 


CONTENTMENT. 

Unto  my  humble  home,  to  eat  the  dinner 

steaming  there, 
Ah,  what  a  joy  awaits  me  then!     What 

prince's  appetite 
Could  ever  be  compared  to  that  which  I 

have  every  night? 
But,    as     for     him — the    millionaire — he 

lunches  on  a  crust, 
Because  dyspepsia  mocks  at  him,  and  tells 

him  that  he  must! 

Oh,  let  this  sallow,  wrinkled  man  grind  on 

and  save  and  save, 
And  I  will  be  content  to  keep  on  toiling 

as  a  slave ; 
Oh,  let  him  have  his  sleepless  nights,  while 

happy  dreams  are  mine; 
Oh,  let  him  be  the  upas  tree  that  holds  no 

clinging  vine! 
Though  he  has  wealth  that  lifts  him  high 

in  thoughtless  people's  sight, 
I'll  never  envy  him  while  I  can  soundly 

sleep  at  night. 


132 


LINES  TO  A  COBBLER. 

Men  look  upon  him  with  disdain, 

And  scout  his  humble  trade; 
Poor  soul,  he  has  no  teeming  brain. 

No  learning  to  parade ! 
He  only  sits,  from  day  to  day, 

And  plies  his  awl  and  thread ; 
No  tender  fancies  ever  play 

'Round  that  dull,  grizzled  head. 

Still,  be  not  hasty  to  despise 

This  man  of  humble  parts, 
For,  though  he  has  not  drawn  a  prize, 

In  choosing  of  the  arts, 
His  awl  obeys  a  master's  hand. 

And,  oh,  to  be  supreme 
In  any  honest  thing  is  grand 

Beyond  the  poet's  dream! 


LOST  CANDOR. 

I  used  to  hold  her  on  my  knees, 

And  softly  stroke  her  sunny  curls; 
I  used  to  pat  her  dimpled  cheeks, 

And  call  her  loveliest  of  girls ; 
She  used  to  look  into  my  eyes, 

And  smile  and  nestle  down,  serene — 
But  that  was  when  the  maid  was  four, 

And  I  had  just  turned  seventeen. 

I  met  her  yesterday  again, 

She  placed  a  little  hand  in  mine; 
She  looked  into  my  eyes  and  then 

I  saw  a  blush  that  was  divine ! 
I  thought  of  those  old  days  when  we 

Had  romped  around  upon  the  green — 
When  she  was  four  and  frank  and  free, 

And  I  had  just  turned  seventeen. 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  speak  to  her 

As  freely  as  I  did  of  yore ; 
Would  that  she  were  as  frank  with  me 

As  when  she  was  a  child  of  four ! 
But  words  that  I  would  say  to-day 

Unto  this  graceful  little  queen 
Forsake  me,  since  I'm  thirty-one 

And  she  is  stately  and  eighteen. 


134 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  CHURCH 
DOWN  TOWN. 

Down  in  the  smoke,  where  the  roar  and 
the  rush 

Of  traffic  is  heard  all  day ; 
Where   the   cars   and  the  trucks  and  the 
carriages  crush 

The  cripple  that  gets  in  the  way ; 
Surrounded  by  buildings  that  tower  above 

And  flanked  by  a  bright  bit  of  sod — 
An  oasis  left  there  in  the  desert  of  trade — 

Is  a  spot  that  belongs  to  God. 

I  steal  through  the  half-open  door  and  sit 

down 

In  an  old-fashioned  pew  to  dream — 
To    forget   the   roar   of    the   money-mad 

town — 
And    through   a    memorial   window    a 

beam 

Of  God's  sweet  sunlight  forces  itself, 
And  illumines  the  dark  old  place; 
And  a  smile  of  sweet  welcome  seems  to 

spread 
O'er  the  pictured  Saviour's  face. 

And  so  for  a  while  my  mind  is  free 
From  the  world  and  its  mad  affairs, 


THE  LITTLE   OLD  CHURCH 
DOWN  TOWN. 

Again  my  mother  sits  next  to  me, 
And  I  hear  her  whispered  prayers! 

O,  blissful  hour!     O,  sacred  spot, 

What  sweet  old  memories  do  ye  bring! 

O,  cramped  and  crowded  house  of  God, 
What  glories  still  around  thee  cling ! 

Again  I  can  hear  the  sweet  old  chimes, 

As  I  slowly  move  away, 
And  I'm  better  for  thinking  of  those  old 

times — 

I've  communed  with  Him  to-day! 
Surrounded    by     buildings     that     tower 

above, 

And  flanked  by  a  bit  of  sod, 
There  is  rest,  there  is  hope,  there  is  happi 
ness 
On  this  spot  that  belongs  to  God. 


136 


SINCE  SHE'S  AWAY. 

She's  gone  away — 

The  sky  is  blue, 
But  it  was  bluer  yesterday ; 

The  breeze,  I  trow,  was  sweeter,  too, 
Before  she  went  away. 

She's  gone  away — 

There  seems  to  be 
A  lack  of  something  here,  to-day ; 

The  town  is  dead  and  drear  to  me 
Since  she  has  gone  away. 

She's  gone  away — 

I  never  knew, 
Until  she  started,  yesterday, 

How  fair  she  was,  how  helpful,  too — 
And  she  is  far — so  far  away ! 

She's  gone  away — 

I  would  that  she 
Were  coming  back  again,  to-day, 

For  it  has  just  occurred  to  me 
How  dear  she  is,  since  she's  away! 


ON  LIFE'S  LADDER. 
I. 

For  him  who  seeks  to  rise  few  hands  reach 

down  to  claim  his  grip, 
Few  warning  words  are  heard  above  to 

save  him  from  a  slip ; 
Each    upward    step    he    takes    must    be 

through  efforts  of  his  own, 
For  everyone  that's  gained  the  top  would 

like  to  be  alone ! 

II. 

For   him   who    stumbles    on    the   way   a 

thousand  hands  reach  out 
To    grasp   and   pull   him   down   into   the 

misery-haunted  rout! 
There's  scanty  welcome  at  the  top  for  him 

that  wins,  but  oh 
What  joyous  greetings  does  he  get  who 

joins  the  ranks  below ! 


138 


A  WISH. 

If  some  good  fairy  were  to  come 

To  me  to-day  and  say : 
"One  wish  I  have  to  grant  to  thee — 
One  wish,  come  say,  what  shall  it  be? 

And  have  it  while  you  may," 

Dost  think  that  I  would  ask  for  wealth, 

Or  for  unbounded  fame? 
Nay,  riches  would  not  charm  me  then, 
Nor  power  to  wield  a  glorious  pen 

Would  be  the  boon  I'd  claim. 

But  I  would  make  this  simple  wish: 

That  I  might  once  more  stand 
Back  in  the  happy  days  of  old, 
With  faith  in  the  rainbow's  pot  of  gold 
And  glad  belief  in  fairy  land ! 


PASSING  OF  A  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 

Lay  him  away, 

It  matters  not  where  • 
Dig  a  hole  in  the  ground, 

And  deposit  him  there ; 
'Twill  be  useless  to  raise 

A  shaft  o'er  his  head, 
For  Heaven's  aware 

Of  the  fact  that  he's  dead! 

Lowly  his  lot, 

And  humble  his  sphere ; 
The  world — the  big,  busy  world  knew  not 
That  he  ever  was  sent  to  minister  here ; 
He  gathered  no  millions,  he  built  up  no 

trusts, — 
He  cornered  no  markets,  robbed  no  one 

of  bread ; 
His  raiment  was  ragged,   he  lived  upon 

crusts — 

But    Heaven's  aware  of   the  fact  that 
he's  dead! 

Did  he  worship  in  church 

In  the  orthodox  way? 
Did  the  rafters  ring  when 

It  was  his  turn  to  pray? 
Alas,  I  know  not — 

But  let  it  be  said 


140 


PASSING  Of  A   GOOD  SAMARITAN. 

That  Heaven's  aware 

Of  the  fact  that  he's  dead! 

The  orphan  he  fanned 

Through  feverish  days 
May  live  or  may  not 

To  cherish  his  praise ; 
The  sick  that  he  nourished  when  stricken 

himself, 
The  starving  that,  when  he  was  hungry, 

he  fed 
May  pray  for  him  now,  or  may  not,  as 

they  list — 

But  Heaven's  aware   of   the   fact   that 
he's  dead! 

Lay  him  away, 

It  matters  not  where; 
Dig  a  hole  in  the  earth, 

And  deposit  him  there; 
When  the  last  trumpet  sounds 

He  will  hear,  he  will  hear 
As  well  as  the  man 

O'er  whose  head  people  rear 
The  highest  of  columns — 

Aye,  put  him  to  bed ! 
If  there  is  a  God  He  will  not  forget 

That  this  lowly  man  lived — and  is  dead ! 


141 


"WHEN  THE   DEVIL   WAS   SICK." 

A  man  who  had  delved  in  the  lore  of  the 

ages 
And  could  tell  you  the  weight  of  the 

stars, 
Who  had  added  wise  words  unto  Science's 

pages 

And  written  an  essay  on  Mars, 
Arrived  at  the  startling  conclusion,  one 

day, 
That   lawyers   who   plead   and   preachers 

who  pray, 

And  doctors  who  claim  to  subdue  peo 
ple's  ills 

With  scalpels  and  nostrums  and  poison 
ous  pills 

Were  nothing  but  swindlers,  each  in  his 
way. 

But  the  man  who  had  delved  in  the  lore 

of  the  ages 

And  studied  the  far-away  stars, 
Who   had   earned   the   proud   right  to  be 

classed  with  the  sages, 
One  day  got  in  front  of  the  cars ! 
They  picked  him  up  tenderly ;    put  him  to 

bed, 
And,  as   he   lay   groaning   and   moaning, 

half -dead, 


142 


"WHEN  THE  DEVIL    WAS  SICK." 

A  preacher  came  in  and  knelt  down  at 

his  side 
And  called  on   the   God  that  the  sage 

had  denied, 
And  he  heartily  joined  in  the  prayers  that 

were  said. 

Yet  the  man  who  had  delved  in  the  lore  of 

the  ages, 

And  could  name  all  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
Who  had  added  wise  words  unto  Science's 

pages, 

Was  not  quite  ready  to  die ! 
He  summoned  a  surgeon  and  patiently  lay 
While  the  "brute  of  a  butcher"  was  saw 
ing  away: 
He  took  all  the  poisons  they  gave  him 

to  take, 
Forgetting    that    "doctoring's    only    a 

fake" — 
And  arose  and  hobbled  away,  one  day. 

Now  the  man  who  has  delved  in  the  lore 

of  the  ages 

And  can  tell  you  the  names  of  the  stars, 
Who   has   earned   the   proud   right  to  be 

classed  with  the  sages 
And    was  knocked    galley  west  by  the 

cars — 

Who  prayed  when  he  thought  he  was  go 
ing  to  die, 
Who,  ill,  sent  for  him  of  whom,  well,  he 

fought  shy, 

Has  hired  a  lawyer  to  take  up  his  case — 
To  sue  for  the  damages  done  to  his  face 
And  the  leg  that  he  lost  when  the  train 
went  by. 

H3 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  FORGOTTEN. 

"Set  him  there,  where  he  may  see  me; 

Let  me  hold  his  little  hand ; 
Keep  my  memory  before  him 

So  that  he  may  understand. 
Let  him  look  upon  my  visage 

As  I  draw  my  latest  breath ; 
Let  him  close  my  eyes,  when,  sightless, 

They  shall  stare  at  him,  in  death. 

"Let  him  look;  he  may  remember! 
In  the  years  to  come,  perchance 
He  may  still  recall  his  father, 

Back  across  the  dim  expanse. 
God,    thou    hast     been     kind — I   thank 

Thee! 

Thou  hast  given  me  to  see 
Him  whose  flesh  is  mine — I  pray  Thee 
Let  my  son  remember  me." 

The  wondering  child  bent  over, 

And  he  kissed  his  father's  brow; 
They  that  listened  heard  the  grating 

Of  the  sable  boatman's  prow; 
There  were  tears  and  sobs  and  sighing, 

But  the  father  only  smiled, 
And,  in  death,  still  gazed  up  fondly 

At  the  prattling  little  child. 


144 


THE  MAN  WHO   WAS  FORGOTTEN. 

ENVOY. 

There's  a  gravestone  that  is  mossy,  and  a 

name  is  carved  thereon ; 
There's  a  wife  that  once  was  widowed, 

but  the  years  have  come  and  gone ; 
There's  a  son  to  whom  a  father's  tender 

love  is  all  unknown, 
And  the  name  he  bears  is  not  the  name 

that's  carved  upon  the  stone ! 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  SELFISH. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  dear, 
Ere  lines  had  marked  your  brow, 

Ere  God  had  sent  the  loved  ones  here 
That  cling  about  us  now — 

When  you  and  I  were  free  from  care, 

We  thought  the  world  was  very  fair — 
When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  dear. 

But  we  are  older  now,  my  dear, 

And  worried  by  the  cares 
Of  those  who  cling  around  us  here 

And  have  their  love  affairs — 
Ere  you  were  grieved  by  others'  woes 
You  were  as  radiant  as  a  rose, 

But  now  your  brow  has  furrows,  dear. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  dear, 
We  thought  the  Lord  was  good, 

But  that  was  ere  we  had  to  bear 
The  weight  of  parenthood ! — 

The  cares  of  those  we  love,  sweetheart. 

A  spice  to  human  joys  impart, 

And  feed  the  hungry  soul,  my  dear. 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  my  dear, 

And  neither  knew  a  care, 
I  trod  a  pathway  that  was  clear, 

And  led  you,  trembling,  there — 
But  the  happiness  of  careless  days 
Has  broadened  in  a  hundred  ways 

Since  others  cling  about  us,  dear ! 

146 


WAITING  FOR  SOMETHING  TO 
HAPPEN. 

He  grubbed  away  on  a  patch  of  ground, 
"Waiting  for  something  to  happen;" 
Year  after  year  the  same  old  round, 
"Waiting  for  something  to  happen;" 
The  moments  he  had  to  spare  he  spent 

In  "waiting  for  something  to  happen;" 
His  hair  grew  gray,  his  shoulders  bent, 
But  he  grubbed  and  he  loafed,  and  was 

content 
To  "wait  for  something  to  happen." 

His  tools  wore  out,  and  his  ground  grew 

poor, 

"Waiting  for  something  to  happen," 
But  he  grubbed  and  he  loafed  and  he 

still  was  sure 
That    "something    would    some    day 

happen," 

And  many  a  chance  he  let  go  past, 
"Waiting  for  something  to  happen," 
Until  there  came  a  day  at  last 
When  clods  above  his  head  were  cast — 
Something  had  finally  happened ! 


WHEN  DOCTORS  DISAGREE. 

He  looked  at  my  tongue  and  he  shook  his 

head — 

This  was  Doctor  Smart — 
He  thumped  on  my  chest,  and  then  he 

said: 

"Ah,  there  it  is!     Your  heart! 
You     mustn't     run — you     mustn't 

hurry ! 
You    mustn't     work — you    mustn't 

worry ! 
Just  sit  down  and  take  it  cool; 

You  may  live  for  years,  I  cannot  say ; 
But,  in  the  meantime,  make  it  a  rule 
To  take  this  medicine  twice  a  day!" 

He  looked  at  my  tongue,  and  he  shook 

his  head — 

This  was  Dr.  Wise — 
''Your  liver's  a  total  wreck,"  he  said, 
"You  must  take  more  exercise! 
You  mustn't  eat  sweets, 
You  mustn't  eat  meats, 
You  must  walk  and  leap,  you  must  also  run ; 
You  mustn't  sit  down  in   the  dull   old 

way ; 
Get  out  with  the  boys  and   have  some 

fun — 
And  take  three  doses  of  this  a  day!" 


148 


WHEN  DOCTORS  DISAGREE. 

He  looked  at  my  tongue,  and  he  shook 

his  head — 

This  was  Dr.  Bright— 
'I'm  afraid  your  lungs  are  gone,"  he  said, 
"And  your  kidney  isn't  right. 
A  change  of  scene  is  what  you  need, 
Your  case  is  desperate,  indeed, 
And  bread  is  a  thing  you  mustn't  eat — 

Too  much  starch — but,  by  the  way, 
You  must  henceforth  live  on  only  meat — 
And  take  six  doses  of  this  a  day!" 

Perhaps   they  were  right,   and  perhaps 

they  knew, 

It  isn't  for  me  to  say; 
Mayhap  I  erred  when  I  madly  threw 
Their  bitter  stuff  away; 

But  I'm  living  yet  and  I'm  on  my 

feet, 

And  grass  isn't  all  I  dare  to  eat, 
And  I  walk  and  I  run  and  I  worry,  too, 

But,  to  save  my  life,  I  cannot  see 
What  some  of  the  able  doctors  would  do 
If  there  were  no  fools  like  you  and  me. 


149 


A  RESURRECTION. 

"Ah,  Love  is  dead," 

She  said ; 
''Flown  through  the  open  door! 

Never  more 

While  the  sad  winds  blow 
And  the  sad  brooks  flow 

Shall  there  be 

For  me 
The  old,  sweet,  happy  thrill — 

Joy  has  fled. 
And  the  world  is  dark  and  still, 

For  Love  is  dead!" 

She  heard  a  sigh, 
Sweet  and  low ! 
Her  heart  beat  high, 
She  forgot  her  woe, 
And  the  glad  wind  blew, 
And  the  sun  burst  through 
The  clouds  o'erhead — 
The  darkness  fled, 

And  then 

She  looked  with  joy 
On  the  laughing  boy — 
For  Love  was  alive  again! 


150 


FAITH. 

When  the  sky  is  blue  and  friends  are  true, 

And  Fortune,  fickle  dame, 
Bestows  her  winning  smile  on  you, 

With  faith  you  are  aflame. 
Then  you  can  easily  believe 

The  words  the  preacher  says, 
And  for  your  erring  brother  grieve, 

And  join  in  songs  of  praise. 

But,  when  the  somber  clouds  descend 

And  fortune  wears  a  frown, 
When  you  in  vain  approach  your  friend — 

In  fact,  when  you  are  "down" — 
Ah !  then  can  you  your  faith  retain, 

Your  voice  in  pleading  raise, 
And  say  God's  purposes  are  plain, 

And  join  in  songs  of  praise? 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  GOLD. 

The  gray  wolf  scratches  upon  the  door, 
While  the  fierce  wind  shrieks  away, 

And  a  woman  lies  prone  on  her  cabin  floor 
And  a  little  child  shouts  at  play. 

The  pine  trees  moan  on  a  mountain  side, 
Where  a  man  lies  stiff  and  cold, 

And  stares  at  the  far-away  stars,  dull-eyed, 
And  grasps  a  nugget  of  gold. 

Let  the  gray  wolf  howl,  let  the  mother 
weep, 

Let  the  little  one  shriek  at  the  blast — 
Ah,  what  cares  he  who  is  lying  asleep, 

Has  he  not  found  wealth,  at  last? 


152 


THE  MAN  WHO  HADN'T  TIME. 

He  never  had  time  to  play, 

He  never  had  time  to  rest, 
But  he  worked  away  and  thought  of  a  day 

When  what  he  had  done  would  attest 
The  usefulness  of  his  life, 

His  worth  as  a  man  among  men ; 
Then  he  would  quit  the  strife — 

He  would  rest  on  his  laurels  then. 

As  a  bondman  chained  he  slaved, 

Ever  looking  ahead ; 
As  a  miser  he  hoarded  and  saved, 

Grudging  his  daily  bread ! 
Beyond  was  a  happy  day — 

Nearer  and  nearer  it  drew — 
When  his  work  should  be  put  away 

And  care  should  be  banished,  too ! 

At  last,  upon  a  day, 

When  the  sun  was  low  in  the  West, 
He  put  his  work  away, 

And  sat  him  down  to  rest. 
But  where  was  the  dreamed-of  bliss? 

And  why  was  it  now  denied? 
Things  seemed  to  be  going  amiss — 

So  he  brooded  awhile  and  died. 


THE  QUARREL  IN  THE 
CORNFIELD. 

Up  on  the  hill  where  the  sweet  breeze  is 

blowing, 

I  see  the  long  rows  of  the  ripening  corn ; 
There  by  the  fence  where  the  tall  grass  is 

growing, 
Is  the  jug  of  sweet  cider,  beneath  the 

white  thorn. 
And  the  swish  of  the  cutters  that  cleave 

through  the  stalks, 
And  the  song  of  the  wind,   as  it  blows 

through  the  shocks, 
Come  as  plainly  again  as  they  did  on  the 

day 
That  I  threw  down  the  cutter  and  strutted 

away. 

I  see  the  big,   yellow,   ribbed    pumpkins 

that  cover 
The  ground  where  the  corn  has  been 

taken  away — 
Ah,  there  is  a  flock  of  wild  geese  flying 

over, 
Bound    for    some  far-distant  Southern 

bay, 
And  I  hear  the  stern  tones  of  my  father 

again, 


THE  QUARREL  IN  THE  CORNFIELD. 

Bidding  me  go,  as  he  coldly  did  then, 
And  again  in  my  throat  I  can  feel  the 

lump  rise, 
And  again  the  hot  tears  tumble  out  of  my 

eyes! 

O,  for  the  hill  where  the  sweet  breeze  is 

blowing, 
As  in  the  fair  autumn  it    ever  blows 

there ! 
O,  for  a  taste  of  the  sweet  cider  flowing 

Out  of  the  jug  tilted  high  in  the  air! 
O,  for  a  rest  from  the  roar  and  the  rush, 
From    the    pushing,     the    crowding,     the 

carnage,  the  crush ! 
O,  for  the  swish  of  the  blades  through  the 

stalks, 
And   the   song   of   the  wind,  as  it  blows 

through  the  shocks ! 

But  the   hill's    far  away,   and  the  years 

have  been  speeding 
Some    other   is    cutting   the    corn    that 

waves  there, 
And  the   wind   sings  away   through   the 

shocks,  all  unheeding 
The  pain   that   grew   out   of   a   foolish 

affair ! — 

O,  for  a  sight  of  the  corn  on  the  hill, 
O,  for  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still, 
And  O,  for  the  years  that  have  sped  since 

the  day 
That  I  threw  down  the  cutter  and  strutted 

away. 

155 


LOVE  ASLEEP. 

They  builded  air  castles  together, 

They  wished  by  the  stars  in  the  skies, 

They  played  in  the  fields  in  fair  weather, 
And  the  love  light  crept  into  her  eyes; 

She    sighed,    but    he    laughed,    and    his 
laughter 

Came  back  in  sad  echoes  years  after — 
The  love  light  shone  out  of  her  eyes. 

The  maiden  bound  up  her  long  tresses, 
And  men  praised  her  form  and  her  face ; 

No  more  did  she  romp  in  short  dresses, 
A  woman  had  taken  her  place ; 

But  he  saw  not  what  Love  had  completed, 

As  the  boy  treats  the  maiden  he  treated 
The  woman  who  stood  in  her  place. 

One  day  the  doves  cooed  in  May  weather, 
And  a  stranger  looked  into  her  eyes ; 

One  day  they  departed  together, 

And  a  boy  fell  to  earth  from  the  skies — 

A  boy  with  a  heart  that  was  breaking 

And  a  love  that,  at  last,  was  awaking, 
Fell  headlong  to  earth  from  the  skies. 


156 


THIS   QUEER   OLD  WORLD. 

It  is  queer  how  things  go  by  contraries 

here, 

'Tis  always  too  cold  or  too  hot, 
And  the  prizes  we  miss,  you  know,  always 

appear 

To  be  better  than  those  that  we've  got; 
It  is  always  too  wet,  or  too  dusty  and  dry, 

And  the  land  is  too  rough  or  too  flat, 
There's  nothing  that's  perfect  beneath  the 
blue  sky 

—But— 
It's  a  pretty  good  world,  for  all  that. 

Some  people  are  born  but  to  dig  in  the 

soil, 

And  sweat  for  the  bread  that  they  eat, 
While  some  never  learn  the  hard  meaning 

of  toil 

And  live  on  the  things  that  are  sweet ; 
A  few  are  too  rich  and  a  lot  are  too  poor, 

And  some  are  too  lean  or  too  fat — 
Ah,   the   hardships   are   many   that   men 
must  endure, 

—But— 
It's  a  pretty  good  world  for  all  that. 

The  man   who   must   think   envies   them 
that  must  be 


THIS  ^UEER  OLD   WORLD. 

Ever  pounding  and  digging  for  men, 
And   the   man   with    the   pick   would   be 

happy  if  he 

Might  play  with  the  brush  or  the  pen ! 
All   things   go   by    contraries   here   upon 

earth, 

Life  is  empty  and  sterile  and  flat ; 
Man  begins  to  complain  on  the  day  of  his 
birth, 

—But— 
It's  a  pretty  good  world  for  all  that ! 


158 


THE    RECOMPENSE. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the  man 

Who  wins  renown  on  earth 
Finds  that  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd 

Are  of  exalted  worth. 
I  wonder  if,  when  in  the  tomb 

His  wasted  clay  is  laid, 
The  labor  and  the  loneliness 

He  knew  have  been  repaid. 

I  wonder  if  the  common  man, 

Who  drifts  along  through  life, 
Content  with  love  and  praises  from 

His  children  and  his  wife, 
Has  not  less  cause  to  murmur  at 

The  firm  decrees  of  fate 
Than  he  that  frets  for  future  men 

To  find  that  he  was  great? 


A  FEW  BOYS. 


SONG  FOR  THE  FIRST  BORN. 

Two  twinkling  stars  of  wonderful  size 
Disappeared  from  the  sky  one  night, 
And  these  are  my  dear  little  romancer's 

eyes, 

And,  oh,  he  must  close  them  tight ! 
Sweet  little  wanderer,  go  to  sleep; 
Dear  little  curly  head,  mustn't  peep — 
Two  sleepy  eyes  of  wonderful  size, 
And  a  sweet  little  kiss,  good  night! 

A  little  white  cloud  had  a  wonderful  fall 

From  out  of  the  sky,  one  night, 
And  tnis  is  his  bed  and  his  pillow  and  all, 
So  white  and  so  soft  and  so  light ! 
Sweet  little  wanderer,  go  to  sleep: 
Dear  little  curly-head, mustn't  peep ! — 
The  cloud  is  his  bed  and  his  pillow  and  all, 
So  a  sweet  little  kiss,  good  night ! 

The  wind  sang  a  song  to  the  fairies  that 

lay 

Asleep  in  the  flowers,  one  night, 
And  this  is  the  song  that  is  dying  away, 
As  fancy  is  winging  its  flight! 

Sweet  little  wanderer  doesn't  peep; 
Dear     little     curly-head's     gone    to 

sleep  !— 

And  this  is  the  song  that  is  dying  away 
In  the  dreams  of  my  darling,  to-night! 

163 


THERE  IS  A  SANTA  GLAUS. 

I'm  jist  as  glad  as  I  can  be, 

And  I  won't  lie  no  more, 
Nor  make  my  mamma  cry  for  me 

The  way  I  have  before; 
I'll  never,  never  run  away, 

Nor  swear  again,  because — 
I  don't  care  what  bad  people  say — 

They  is  a  Santa  Glaus! 

Some  bigger  boys  'an  me,  at  school, 

Said  Santa  was  a  hoax, 
Somebody  started  once,  to  fool 

The  little  bits  of  folks; 
They  told  me  that  my  teacher  knew 

And  grandpa  understood — 
That  your  parents  told  you  stories  to 

Jist  git  you  to  be  good. 

Nen  I  went  and  runned  away, 

And  I  was  awful  bad ; 
I  swored  a  lot  of  times  that  day, 

Because  I  was  so  mad ! 
I'd  been  as  good  as  I  could  be 

Since  way  back  in  the  fall — 
And  they  was  no  Santa  Glaus  to  see 

Or  know  it,  after  all ! 

But  when  I'd  got  all  tucked  in  bed 
I  heard  pa  say,  that  night, 

164 


THERE  IS  A   SANTA   CLAUS. 

Old  Santa  Claus  had  got  a  sled 
And  skates  fer  me,  all  right — 

He  didn't  know  I  heard  him,  though, 
Nen  I  cried,  because 

I'd  been  so  bad  all  day,  and  oh, 
They  was  a  Santa  Claus! 

So  I  got  out  of  bed,  at  last, 

And  climbed  up  on  his  knee, 
And  when  he  stroked  my  head  I  ast 

If  Santa'd  pardon  me; 
I  told  him  all  about  how  I'd 

Runned  off  and  swored  that  day, 
And  mamma  she  set  there  and  cried, 

And  pa  he  looked  away! 

But  purty  soon  he  petted  me, 

And  after  while  he  said : 
'Well,  never  mind,  jist  wait  and  see — 

You'll  git  the  skates  and  sled ! 
Those  bad  boys  don't  know  what  they 
say — 

Go  back  to  sleep — for  laws ! 
'Thout    him    we'd    have    no    Christmas 
day — 

'Course  they's  a  Santa  Claus!" 


165 


THE  BOY  WHOSE  PA  HAS 
SPELLS. 

I've  jist  been  down  with  Tommy  Brown 

And  helpin'  him  to  fly 
A  kite  what  his  pa  made  for  him, 

Way  up  into  the  sky. 
His  pa  he  lets  him  play  all  day 

And  have  the  mostest  fun ! 
He's  got  a  goat  he  drives  around, 

And  a  nawful  nice  air  gun, 
And  his  pa  often  plays  with  him, 

And  every  circus  day 
They  go  to  see  the  show,  and  oh 

Wisht  my  pa  treated  me  that  way ! 

My  pa  he  stays  away  some  nights 

Till  awful,  awful  late, 
And  so  my  ma  she  has  to  set 

Up  all  alone  and  wait, 
And  then,  next  morning,  my,  but  he 

Does  tear  around  and  jaw, 
And  if  I  speak  he  strikes  at  me 

And  does  the  same  to  ma, 
And  when  he's  gone  ma  has  to  cry 

Hard  as  she  ever  can — 
Some  day  I'll  take  her  part  when  I 

Grow  up  to  be  a  man ! 


166 


THE  EOT  WHOSE  PA  HAS  SPELLS. 

I  guess  'at  my  pa  never  was 

No  little  boy  at  all, 
For  he  don't  never  want  to  fly 

No  kites  nor  bat  the  ball — 
But  wunst  he  stood  and  looked  at  me 

A  long,  long  time,  and  I 
Was  'fraid  he'd  whip  me,  so  I  had 

To  jist  give  up  and  cry, 
And  then  he  come  and  stroked  my  head 

And  didn't  never  speak, 
But  jist  bent  down  and  hugged  me 

And  kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 
And  then  I  cried  more  harder 

Than  I  ever  cried  before, 
And,  oh,  I  wisht  that  some  time  he 

Would  love  me  so  some  more ! 

Most  other  boyses  pas  they  play 

With  them  sometimes,  but  my 
Pa  he  don't  never  play  with  me, 

Nor  make  no  kites  to  fly, 
And  I  can't  go  to  circuses 

Like  all  the  other  boys, 
And  they  are  always  tellin'  me 

How  their  pas  buy  them  toys, 
And  their  pas  never  punish  them 

Unless  they're  awful  bad — 
If  my  pa  was  that  kind  to  me, 

Oh,  wouldn't  I  be  glad! 

Sometimes  when  he  comes  home  at  night 
And  I've  been  sleepin'  sound, 

He  wakes  me  up  and  then  I  lay 
And  hear  him  stompin'  round, 

167 


THE  EOT  WHOSE  PA  HAS  SPELLS. 

And  then,  next  mornin',  ma  she  cries 

And  says  he  wasn't  well — 
When  I  ast  her  what  the  trouble  was — 

He's  had  another  spell ! — 
I'm  awful  sorry  for  the  boys 

Whose  pas  has  spells,  for,  oh, 
When  his  spells  come  he  gits  so  mad, 

And  ma  she  takes  it  so ! 

But  if,  some  day,  he'll  only  stand 

And  look  at  me  again 
The  way  he  did  that  first  time,  and 

Be  just  like  he  was  then — 
Oh,  then,  I  won't  care  if  he  don't 

Make  kites  for  me  to  fly, 
And,  oh,  I'll  be  so  happy  if 

He'll  only  make  me  cry, 
By  bein'  good  to  me,  because 

Most  fun  I  ever  had 
Was  when  I  felt  so  awful  bad 

Because  I  was  so  glad ! 


168 


CONFESSIONS  OF  LITTLE  WILLIE. 

Pa  says  they   ain't   no  spooks  at   all,  Ni 

s'pose  he  ought  to  know, 
'Cause  he  knows  nearly  everything  worth 

knowin'  here  below; 
He    says    'at   only   fraidy   calfs   believes 

they's  ghosts  around, 
For  people  can't  git  back  on  earth  when 

you  put  'em  under  ground. 

I  don't  believe  in  spirits  when  the  sun  is 

shinin'  bright, 
And  I  can  hear  folks  talk,   or  they's  a 

livin'  thing  in  sight, 
If  they  is  jist  a  cat  or  dog  around  me  I'm 

prepared 
For  anything:  'at  comes  along,  and  ain't 

a  bit  a-scared. 

But  sometimes  I  come  home  from  school 

when  ma's  away,  and  then 
I  go  a-sneakin'   up  the  stairs,  and  then 

sneak  down  again, 
And  think  I'll  find  the  doughnuts  or  the 

raisins  or  the  jam — 
And  then  I  hear   somebody   step — or  a 

door  shuts  with  a  slam. 

I  know  as  well   as   I'm  alive  they  ain't 
nobody  there, 


169 


CONFESSIONS   OF  LITTLE   WILLIE. 

But  shivers  creep  along  my  back,  and  I 

can  feel  my  hair 
Raise  right  straight  up  and  stand  as  stiff 

as  bristles  on  my  head — 
And  I  believe  in  ghosts  in  spite  of  all  pa 

ever  said. 

I  dassent  turn  around  and  look,  for  I'm 

afraid  I'll  see 
Some  big  white  thing  without   no   head 

a-standin'  back  of  me — 
But  after  while  I  whistle  or  else  I  sing, 

and  then 
Go  out  and  run  around  the  yard  and  git 

braced  up  again. 

And  when  it's  dark  at  night,  and  I  wake 

up  and  lay  in  bed, 
I  can't  keep  ugly  thoughts  of  ghosts  from 

gittin'  in  my  head. 
And   then    I    hear   pa   snorin',  and   my 

blood  gits  froze,  almost, 
For  every  snore  sounds  like  the  groan  of 

some  poor  sinner's  ghost. 

Pa  says  they  ain't  no  ghosts,  and   I   talk 

big,  sometimes,  and  laugh 
At  Eddie  Gray,  'cause  he  believes,  and 

call  him  fraidy  calf, 
But  when  I  do  bad  things  and  then  am 

all  alone,  by  Jinks, 
I  know  they's  ghosts  a-snoopin'  round,  in 

spite  of  what  pa  thinks ! 


170 


WHEN  SORROWS  COME. 

Oh,  come   to   me,  dear   little   baby   boy, 

come! 

Let  me  snuggle  you  close  to  my  heart; 
Oh,  come,  let  me  kiss  the  poor,  hurt  little 

thumb, 

And  so  take  away  all  the  smart ! 
There,  there,  little  one, 
You  see  it  is  gone, 
Now,  dry  up  your  tears  and  away, 

For  the  sun  is  scarce  up  ere  the  night  is 

begun. 
So  don't  miss  a  moment  of  play! 

Oh,  come   to   me,  dear   little   baby   boy, 

come! 

When  childhood  has  faded  behind. 
With  the  smart  in  your  heart  instead  of 

your  thumb, 

And  troubles  beclouding  your  mind — 
Oh,  come  to  me  then, 
Let  me  cheer  you  again, 
As  I  cheer  you,  my  darling,  to-day ! 
Don't  sorrow  alone  o'er  the  coldness  of 

men — 
And  don't  miss  a  moment  of  play ! 


171 


GETTING  TO  BE  A  MAN. 

I'm  glad  my  hair  ain't  yallow, 

And  all  curled  up  and  long; 
I'm  glad  my  cheeks  ain't  dimpled, 

And  that  I'm  gittin'  strong, 
I  wisht  my  voice  was  hoarser, 

To  talk  like  Uncle  Dan, 
Because  I  want  to  hurry 

And  git  to  be  a  man ! 

I'm  glad  the  women  never 

Come  up  to  me  and  say : 
'Oh,  what  a  purty  little  boy!" 

In  that  soft  kind  of  way. 
I  wear  big  shoes,  and  always 

Make  all  the  noise  I  can, 
Because  I  want  to  hurry 

And  git  to  be  a  man ! 

I've  got  on  pa's  suspenders — 

Wisht  I  had  whiskers,  too, 
And  that  my  feet  was  bigger, 

And  schoolin'  was  all  through. 
Wisht  Edison  or  some  one 

Would  come  out  with  some  plan 
To  help  a  boy  to  hurry 

And  git  to  be  a  man  ! 


172 


MEDITATIONS  OF  JOHNNY. 

I  wisht  'at  I  was  bigger,  so  when  I  go  out 

to  play 
With   older   boys   they    wouldn't   try    to 

order  me  away, 
An"  nen  they  wouldn't  always  make  me 

set  up  on  the  fence, 
When  they  are  playin'  circus,  an'  be  the 

audy-ence. 

I'd  like  to  git  into  the  ring,  an'  play  I  was 

the  clown, 
Or    else    the    bareback   rider,    who   goes 

jumpin'  up  and  down, 
Or  I'd  like    to  be  ringmaster — wouldn't 

that  be  just  immense ! 
But  ev'ry  time  they  make  me  play'  at  I'm 

the  audy-ence. 

When  I  git  bigger,  someday  I'm  agoin'  to 

have  a  ring 
An'  be  the  lofty  tumbler,  an'  clown,  an' 

ev'rything, 
An'  then  the  littler  boys'll  have  to  set  up 

on  the  fence 
An'  clap  their  hands  when  I  perform — an' 

be  the  audy-ence. 


A  BOY'S  KING. 

My  papa  he's  the  bestest  man 

Whatever  lived,  I  bet, 
And  I  ain't  never  seen  no  one 

As  smart  as  he  is  yet. 
Why,  he  knows  everything,  almost, 

But  mamma  says  that  he 
Ain't  never  been  the  President, 

And  that  surprises  me. 

And  often  papa  talks  about 

How  he  must  work  away — 
He's  got  to  toil  for  other  folks 

And  do  what  others  say ; 
And  that's  a  thing  that  bothers  me — 

When  he's  so  good  and  great, 
He  ought,  I  think,  at  least  to  be 

The  ruler  of  the  State ! 

He  knows  the  names  of  lots  of  stars. 

And  he  knows  all  the  trees, 
And  he  can  tell  the  different  kinds 

Of  all  the  birds  he  sees, 
And  he  can  multiply  and  add 

And  figure  in  his  head — 
They    might    have  been   some  smarter 
men, 

But  I  bet  you  they  are  dead. 


A  JBOl^S  KING. 

Once  when  he  thought  I  wasn't  near 

He  talked  to  mamma  then 
And  told  her  how  he  hates  to  be 

The  slave  of  other  men, 
And  how  he  wished  that  he  was  rich 

For  her  and  me — and  I 
Don't  know  what  made  me  do  it,  but 

I  had  to  go  and  cry ! 

And  so  when  I  sat  on  his  knee 

I  ast  him: — "Is  it  true 
That  you're  a  slave  and  have  to  toil 

When  others  tell  you  to? 
You  are  so  big  and  good  and  wise, 

You  surely  ought  to  be 
The  President,  instead  of  just 

A  slave,  it  seems  to  me." 

And  then  the  tears  come  in  his  eyes, 

And  he  hugged  me  tight  and  said  :- 
'Why,  no,  my  dear,  I'm  not  a  slave — 

What  put  that  in  your  head? 
I  am  a  king — the  happiest  king 

That  ever  yet  held  sway, 
And  only  God  can  take  my  throne 

And  my  little  realm  away!" 


SHE  NEVER  WAS  A  BOY. 

When  I  come  home,  the  other  night, 

With  an  ugly  lookin'  eye 
That  I  had  got  into  a  fight, 

Poor  ma  commenced  to  cry ; 
But  when  I  told  pa  how  it  was, 

He  clapped  his  hands  for  joy, 
And  told  me  I  done  bully,  'cause 

Once  he  had  been  a  boy. 

'Boys  will  be  boys,"  I  heard  him  say, 
"They  won't  be  otherwise, 
And  the  one  that  learns  to  fight  his  way 

Is  the  one  that  wins  the  prize ; 
When  I  was  his  age  fightin'  was 

My  greatest  earthly  joy — " 
But  ma  she  kept  on  cryin',  'cause 
She  never  was  a  boy. 

My  golly,  but  I'd  hate  to  be 

A  girl  with  braided  hair, 
And  always  prim  as  A,  B,  C, 

With  clothes  too  clean  to  wear ! 
When  ma  was  small  I  s'pose  she  was 

Red-cheeked  and  sweet  and  coy — 
But,  oh,  the  fun  she  missed  because 

She  never  was  a  boy ! 


176 


RIDING  THE  OLD  GRAY  HORSE. 

The  old  gray  horse  jogs  down  a  way 

That  leads  through  a  pleasant  land, 
Where  never  a  wrong  is  suffered  to  stray, 

And  never  a  plot  is  planned ! 
And  the  breeze  that   blows   revives   and 
cheers 

And  happiness  fills  the  air, 
And  sweet  are  the  sounds  that  greet  my 
ears, 

While  the  horse  is  jogging  there ! 

Ride  on,  upon  the  patient  steed, 

As  another  rode  long  ago, 
Down  past  the  old  enchanted  mead, 

Where  the  flowers  of  memory  blow — 
Through  the  beautiful  town  of  Used-to-Be, 

Which  lies  in  the  pleasant  way, 
And  cling,  as  I  clung  to  my  father's  knee, 

And  urged  the  good  old  gray ! 

The  old  gray  horse  jogs  down  a  lane 

That  leads  from  the  town  of  Care, 
Past  running  brooks  and  waving  grain, 

And  meadows  wide  and  fair, 
To  the  glorious  city  of  Heart's  Content, 

Which  stands  on  the  hills  of  Joy, 
And  where  the  head  of  the  government 

Is  a  shouting  little  boy ! 


177 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 

Oh,  dance  around  it,  my  little  man ! 

Oh,  clap  your  hands  and  shout ! 
Be  merry,  my  darling,  while  you  can, 
For  the  candles  will  soon  burn  out — 
There  is  care  ahead, 
There  are  tears  to  shed, 
And  there  will  be  trouble  and  doubt. 

Oh,  dance  around  it,  to-day,  my  love ! 

Sweet  faith  has  been  given  to  thee — 
Faith  in  the  Glorious  Child  above — 
The  faith  that  was  given  to  me ! 
But  scoffers  will  rise, 
To  "open  your  eyes," 
And  set  you  adrift  on  the  sea. 

Oh,  dance  around  it,  my  dear,  to-day ! 

You  are  going  to  mingle  with  men, 
And  the  faith  that  you  have  will  be  taken 

away, 

And  gloom  will  encompass  you  then ! — 
Till  your  own  little  one 
Sends  care  on  the  run, 
And  brings  the  old  faith  back  again. 


178 


THE  GOOD  NIGHT  KISS. 

I  saw  a  sweet  young  mother  place 
A  hand  upon  her  darling's  head ; 
A  blush  of  shame  o'erspread  his  face, 
As  lovingly,  she  said : 
"Come,  dear,  'tis  late, 

You  mustn't  wait, 
So  say  good  night,  and  go  to  bed." 

He  looked  at  me  with  sheepish  eyes, 

And  softly  tried  to  steal  away; 
I  thought  of  one  in  Paradise, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  pray : 
"And  must  I  miss 

My  darling's  kiss?" 
I  heard  the  fond  young  mother  say. 

Her  cheeks  were  round  and  soft  and  fair, 

As  were  another's  long  ago; 
I  saw  a  child  with  sunny  hair, 
O'er  whom  a  mother  bended  low, 
I  heard  her  say, 
As  he  fled  away : 

"And    pray    for    the    orphan,   too,   you 
know." 

I  sigh  for  the  clasp  of  a  tender  hand, 
And    the    kiss    that  a  shamefaced  boy 
forsook ! 


179 


THE  GOOD  NIGHT  KISS, 

I  sigh  for  the  love  he  could  understand 
At  last,  when  they  bade  him  "come  and 
look!" 

But  a  boy  never  knows 
Till  the  fond  eyes  close, 
And  the  Lord,  in  his  wisdom,  shuts  the 
book. 


180 


A  BOY'S  COMPLAINT. 

Almost  the  last  words  father  said 

To  me  before  he  fell  asleep 
Were:     "William,    keep    this    in    your 
head: 

The  crop  you  sow  you'll  have  to  reap! 
Don't  envy  others  what  they've  got, 

But  you  just  do  the  best  you  can 
For  all  the  world,  and  you  cannot 

But  grow  to  be  a  worthy  man." 

I've  had  to  work  since  father  died — 

I've  learned  a  lot  I  never  knew 
Before  he  went;  but  still  I've  tried 

To  do  the  things  he  told  me  to. 
I've  never  cheated  anyone, 

I've  always  tried  to  shun  the  wrong; 
If  he  can  see,  he  knows  I've  done 

My  level  best  to  help  along. 

But  every  day  or  two  I  meet 

Someone  that  father  used  to  know, 
Who  says:    "My  gracious!    It  does  beat 

Creation  how  these  boys  do  grow!" 
And  so  he  stops  and  looks  at  me, 

And  I  could  knife  him  then,  because 
He's  sure  to  say  I'll  never  be 

Quite  such  a  man  as  father  was. 


181 


A  BOT>S  COMPLAINT. 

A  week  ago  my  Uncle  John 

Came  on  a  visit  from  the  West ; 
'Gosh,  how  you've  grown  since  I've  been 
gone ! ' ' 

He  said — and  then  I  guessed  the  rest. 
He  grabbed  me  by  the  muscle — gee ! 

What  an  awful  grip  he  had  !— 
'But  o'  course,"  said  he,  "you'll  never  be 

Quite  such  a  feller  as  your  dad !" 

Still,  mother  tells  me  not  to  care 
What  such  unthinking  people  say; 

She  says  she  knows  I'll  make  them  stare, 

If  God  but  lets  me  live,  some  day ; 
'For  even  Washington,"  says  she, 

"No  doubt  was  often  sad  because 

Folks  told  him  he  would  never  be 
The  man  his  humble  father  was. ' ' 


182 


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